


Miss Swan Goes to Storybrooke

by coalitiongirl



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, Hate to Love, It's Real Gay Folks, Political Campaigns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 11:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 230,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15000386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coalitiongirl/pseuds/coalitiongirl
Summary: Regina Mills is running an underdog mayoral campaign when her hapless partner in crime, Neal Cassidy Gold, hires his new girlfriend to be a part of it. It's hate at first sight. Emma Swan is infuriatingly attractive, infuriatingly competent, and– most infuriatingly– will absolutely bring their entire campaign down if Regina doesn't get rid of her first.Regina is more than up for that task.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalindasharmas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalindasharmas/gifts).



> SO. 1) Happy birthday Maia!!! This is dedicated to you, with great thanks for turning this into what it has become. Band AU would have been a disaster, ngl. And thank you to Tuna for the readthrough and Bailey for the title!! This story also wouldn't exist without my sister, who sat patiently through every single campaign-related question I had for her, no matter how minuscule, and gave me all the details I needed (and found justification for a dinner dance fundraiser, which was the most important detail of all, lbr).
> 
> 2) This is totally AU! It will be fairly lengthy (I've mapped out about 25 chapters, though I may add a few more if I feel that the pacing demands it, which it might) and I'd love if y'all would join me for the ride! This is a political campaign AU, so I think it'll be best read in updates, as though you're on the campaign trail with Emma and Regina. :)
> 
> 3) I'M A LITTLE EXCITED ABOUT IT I HOPE YOU ARE TOO!!!

**FEBRUARY 11**

_ 122 Days Until The Primary _

 

Clipped heels across linoleum. A straight-backed stride that never falters for a moment as it winds into a little office space on the corner of Main Street. A starched pantsuit amidst a crowd of jeans and t-shirts. A sharp, authoritative voice, unimpressed by  _ excuses _ or chatter. 

 

Regina Mills– twenty-five, no-nonsense, and thoroughly pissed– strides into campaign headquarters with her eyes blazing as she barks out orders. “Ruby! Where’s our new directive? The candidate is on his way. Where is Neal? Sabine, the website update?” 

 

“On it, boss,” Sabine pops her head out of her little nook. They’ve put up office panel partitions through the room in the deep green that they’re trying to use as their official campaign color. They wind around the desks, creating miniature cubicles for each division of the campaign, and Sabine’s corner is opposite Ruby’s at the front of the office. “Just trying to pick a pose.” 

 

Regina quickens her step, joining Sabine to look critically at their two options onscreen. In one, the candidate is smiling directly at the camera, his eyes slightly glazed over. In the other, he leans forward with his hands clasped in front of him, the smile more natural but the pose awkward. “I can have J Photoshop the expression from the second onto the first, but–“ 

 

“Have it in my inbox in an hour,” Regina snaps, whirling back around. “Ruby! I need that directive!” 

 

“Working on it!” A voice floats back through the room. Not Ruby’s voice. “We ran into a bit of a…snag earlier–“ 

 

Regina stalks forward to Ruby’s nook. “A _what_?” It isn’t Ruby in there. It’s one of the grunts, a volunteer she remembers as…Adam, maybe? Some generic name she hadn’t needed to file away for the campaign, so she’d promptly forgotten. “Where the hell is Ruby? _The_ _candidate is on his way!_ I told him we’d have a GOTV plan ready for him today!”  

 

The boy looks up at her sheepishly. “I’m getting it to Ruby. I didn’t think you needed it for this morning.” 

 

“I need everything for this morning!” Regina barks out. She has little tolerance for incompetence,  _ particularly  _ from smug little boys who don’t  _ care _ . She raises her voice. “Where the hell is Neal?” No response. Of  _ course _ no response, because why should she ever expect the actual campaign manager to show up when he can relegate all the work to his deputy campaign manager? “Would  _ someone  _ give me some good news to give the candidate?” 

 

A face pops up above the plastic walls that crisscross through headquarters, just under the massive hanging poster that reads  **IT’S THE HONOURABLE THING TO DO** . Regina had fought the candidate for hours on the damn  _ spelling  _ of their slogan, insisting that small-town Maine is going to see it as a pretentious reminder that he isn’t one of them. Neal had shrugged and given them both a floppy-haired lazy smile and said,  _ he’s the boss _ , and now they’re fielding media reports– not that those are all that common to begin with– that the candidate is  _ disconnected from the people _ . “We got you,” Tamara says from Mulan’s corner of the room, proffering a stack of papers as though they’re the Holy Grail. “New policy plans, reviewed and approved by Marian, guaranteed to have the unions eating out of the palm of your hand in one–“ She stabs out a single finger. “–meeting.” 

 

Regina almost weeps in relief. “I could kiss you.” 

 

“Please don’t,” Tamara says, passing the stack over the wall. “I think our relationship may never recover.” Regina clutches the stack to her chest, feeling the comforting weight of efficiency in her arms, and spins around again. 

 

“Let’s go!” she snaps, casting a critical eye around the room, at loose coffee cups and empty takeout and balled up papers around the trash can at the entrance. “Clean up. Look  _ busy _ . If we want the unions to take us seriously, we have to look like a real operation.” She pauses, her voice rising with frustration, and demands again, “Has anyone even  _ heard  _ from Neal?” Nothing. Of course. “Ruby, I need that plan,  _ now _ .” 

 

The boy who isn’t Ruby– Eddy, was it?– rubs the back of his neck and says in a low whine, “I’m working on it.” 

 

“Not quickly enough,” Regina snarls, catching sight of Twitter open on his desktop screen. “Do you think this is a _game_? What are you trying to pull?” She shakes her head, a clipped, irritated movement. She has no time for this, not now, not when the candidate is on his way and their credibility is riding on her having _something_ with substance to give him. “You’re out of here.” 

 

The boy blinks at her. “What?” The others are watching now, heads craning out of their cubicles to see. Regina sweeps a dark glare around the room, and the rest of the campaign team snaps into action, clearing away garbage and organizing their desks.

 

“You’re out,” Regina repeats. “Fired.” 

 

“You can’t fire me! You don’t even pay me!” the boy sputters. “I’m a volunteer!”

 

“Not anymore you aren’t,” Regina bites out. Her voice has gone very low, dangerous, and she knows it’s her mother’s voice and doesn’t care. Her mother, for all her many faults, is very good at terrifying underlings, and Regina needs that skill right now. “If you aren’t taking this seriously, we’ll replace you. So much for this extracurricular on your liberal arts college application,” she sneers, and the boy scoffs in outrage. 

 

He turns around, shoving his binder into his bag, and he mutters loud enough for everyone to hear, “It isn’t like you have a chance, anyway. Even I’m voting for the other guy.” 

 

“Get  _ out _ ,” Regina hisses. The room has fallen very quiet, the tension overwhelming, and the boy grabs his bag and storms out, his footfalls echoing in the silence. There are eyes on her from all around the room, some exhausted, some judgmental, and Regina keeps her chin up and stares them all down.

 

Maybe they don’t have a chance. But she’ll be damned if anyone working in this room  _ believes  _ that, and she glares at her colleagues, daring them to agree with the boy. Furtive eyes flicker away from hers, and Regina can feel herself growing more and more irritated.

 

The tension is cracked, suddenly, by a drawl from the front door. “So I guess new rule for Ruby, huh? She’s gotta make sure her volys are getting out the vote for  _ our _ guy.” Neal laughs, low and easy, and the room ripples with a sigh of relief. People are focusing again, following Regina’s instructions and prepping for the candidate, and Regina hurries over to Neal in a fury.

 

“Where have you  _ been _ ? Ruby is hiring incompetents, Sabine hasn’t finished the website, and we have a meeting with the UAW in twenty minutes! Do you think you can, for a second, pretend that you’re the manager of this campaign?” 

 

Neal tilts his head, that boyish grin on his face that he thinks works on her. “But you’re so much better at it than I am,” he points out, and she glares at him as he moves to the side. “But I  _ do _ have something for you.” He’s been away all weekend, gone on some trip to Florida that he hadn’t seen fit to explain to her.

 

He’d fucking  _ better _ have found a hundred absentee voters in Florida with a thing for Brits.

 

But instead, he reveals, behind him, a girl a year or two younger than Regina. Very attractive, with the kind of unconscious swagger to her that shows that she knows it. White, blonde, with waves of hair cascading over her shoulders and down her back. She has an awkward little smile on her face along with some measure of trepidation, and she sticks her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and says, “Hi.”

 

“Emma Swan,” Neal says proudly. “She’s going to be the best Deputy Field Director we’ve had. And since you just sent the last one out the door, I say that this is fate.” He turns to beam at the girl. 

 

Regina stares at her, then him, then back at her. She’s fidgeting now, glancing around the room as though she’s never seen a campaign before. “What’s her work experience?” 

 

“I was under the impression that this is a volunteer position,” the girl says boldly, and Regina’s lip curls.  _ Oh _ , of course. Another kid who thinks that this is a joke, that she can waltz in and do nothing productive. 

 

Neal shakes his head vigorously. “No way. You’re  _ good _ at this stuff, Emma. We’re going to pay you.” 

 

_ What.  _ Regina stares at him in disbelief. “Absolutely not,” she bites out. “I am not paying some pretty girl who you picked up off the street–“ 

 

“We had an interview,” Neal objects, but he’s grinning like this is still a joke, no big deal at all. The girl looks bewildered, and Neal clarifies, “A breakfast meeting. I was very impressed.” Suspicion creeps up in the back of Regina’s mind, slowly and dangerously, and Neal adds in a lower voice, “And I know that you’re gonna say she’s bad for optics, but the juvie records are all sealed, and–“ 

 

“ _ Neal _ ,” the girl says, her voice strained.

 

Regina gapes at Neal– truly  _ gapes _ , absolutely taken aback for the first time since they’d begun this campaign. “I’m sorry, did you just say that you brought in someone with a  _ criminal record _ ?” The girl’s face is stiffer now, less awkward and more set, and Regina turns on Neal. “Neal, what the  _ fuck _ –“ And then, at last, with a sudden comprehension, it begins to make sense. “Neal, are you  _ dating  _ this girl?” 

 

Neal rubs the back of his head sheepishly, his hand reaching for the girl’s hand. The girl doesn’t take it. Her hands are balled into fists, which is about how Regina feels right now. “Kind of?” he says.

 

This is it. Months of planning, of formulating a vision to take down Mother’s candidate for mayor. Finding someone they can believe in, a husband-wife team who actually care about the people. Putting together a team of the very best, being underestimated at every turn, and Neal Cassidy Gold, professional paparazzi-adored screw-up, is going to compromise their whole dream with another  _ piece of blonde fluff _ . 

 

Neal follows her line of thought, her building rage, with alarm. “Emma’s  _ different _ , Regina,” he says urgently. “She’d be good at this. She’s nothing like Morraine or Wendy–“ 

 

“Or Tina?” Regina shoots back in a low hiss. “That fucking pixie dust scandal was nearly enough to  _ bury  _ you.” She’d eradicated the drug from Storybrooke entirely after  _ that _ . “You always think they’re different. Face it, Neal, you pick up these  _ bimbos _ , they screw you over, and then, next thing you know, you’re on the front cover of every gossip magazine in a hundred-mile radius. We can’t have another one of your scandals during this campaign. Not for some incompetent–“ 

 

“I can do the job,” the girl says. She’s watching Regina, eyes narrowed, and Regina despises her already. From the look of it, it’s mutual. “But I’m not going to grovel for it.” She spins around, and Neal seizes her wrist. 

 

“Come on, Em, she doesn’t mean it.” 

 

“I certainly do,” Regina says, the bubble of frustration rising and ready to pop. They’ve worked for this. They’ve thrown all they have into it. And Neal is going to sabotage both himself and the campaign over some hot girl whose jeans hug her ass just so–

 

She tears her eyes away from the girl’s ass and says again, deliberately, “She can’t work here.” 

 

“We need someone like her,” Neal argues back, and now he sounds serious at last, lowering his voice and pulling Regina out the door, past the girl, where they can’t be heard. “Emma’s got this…this amazing presence, you know? People  _ want  _ to follow her. People want to listen to her.” He has this dopey look on his face like he’s maybe in  _ love _ , because of course he is. Neal never makes it more than a few days before he’s hopelessly in love with a blonde who’s going to wreck him. It’s a reliable formula that Regina, Neal, and a dozen gossip journalists have all learned to recognize. 

 

“Just fuck her and get her out of your system, Neal,” Regina says tiredly. “We have a campaign to run.” 

 

“She sounds like just the one to help you with it,” says a voice behind them, and Regina’s shoulders slump as a hand lands on one of them.  _ Fuck _ . “When do I meet this lovely lady?” 

 

The candidate is here.

 

Robin Locksley had struck Regina as a bit of an insufferable douche when she’d first met him, years ago, just after he’d married his Storybrooke-bred wife and moved to town. He’s grown on her since, to some degree, but he hadn’t been on the radar for this campaign until Neal had brought him in and insisted that they hear him out. But then she’d heard more of what he’d had to say– but then she’d talked to Marian, who’d been brimming with energy and thoughts on how to change their town– and she’d been sold onto his vision. 

 

Before that, Regina had flirted with the idea of running herself. But she’s too young, and she isn’t  _ nice _ , not in that easy way that Neal and Robin both seem to have mastered. She’d never win an election if she’d been the candidate– would never find anyone to believe in her like her team does their candidate– and so she’s settled on making sure that the best man wins. 

 

At times, though, she’d really rather wring off his head. “Robin, are you sure that’s wise?” she begins, trailing behind him as he pushes open the door to the office. “You know Neal’s reputation as a–“

 

“I trust his judgment,” Robin says, exchanging a wink with Neal. He steps into the room, pausing to shake the bimbo’s hand. “Welcome to the team, young lady,” he says graciously, and the girl looks very startled. She looks questioningly at Neal’s grin and Regina’s glare, and her eyes catch Regina’s and hold.

 

They’re challenging, a little smug, and Regina despises this girl with all she has.  _ Bitch _ .

 

* * *

 

“Bitch,” Emma mutters when the campaign manager– sorry,  _ deputy  _ campaign manager, though she certainly seems not to have gotten the memo– stalks past her at the end of the day. She’d done a pretty good rewrite of Ruby’s  _ Get Out The Vote! _ directive, and even the campaign consultant had been impressed with her work before Regina Mills had taken a red pen to it and skewered it. 

 

There’s nothing  _ wrong _ with Regina’s corrections, exactly. They’re all reasonable and some of them might actually improve their work. There’s just something about the way that Regina does the corrections that makes it clear that every single one of them is out of spite and absolutely unnecessary. She’d sauntered off with a smirk on her face and a sway to her hips, and Emma’s been quietly seething since.

 

This is a campaign office, right? Inspire the town and all that shit. They take volunteers all the time without having to  _ vet  _ them. But somehow, Regina Fucking Stick Up Her Ass Mills had decided to single her out and try to get rid of her, just moments after she’d kicked out  _ another  _ volunteer. It’s a wonder that anyone sticks around. 

 

“I’m grabbing dinner,” Regina calls out to Neal, who is going over some of the policy changes that Locksley had wanted. “Anything for you?” 

 

Neal shrugs. “I think Emma and I are going to head out soon. I’ll look over the docs at home. Don’t stay here too late, okay?” 

 

Regina tosses him a scornful look. “Just don’t leave the newbie here alone in the office,” she says, loud enough for the entire office to hear. Emma’s cheeks burn and she slinks down in her chair. Ruby, who is her boss and so far seems a whole lot more laid back than Regina, pats her back consolingly. 

 

“She can be a little prickly at first,” she offers as Regina pushes the door open. There’s a scramble of activity from the rest of the office, campaigners taking Regina’s departure as their cue to leave for the day. “You’ll win her over soon. I’m sure of it.” She beams at Emma, and Emma smiles back wanly.

 

_ Winning over  _ Regina Mills is the very last thought in her mind right now. Lifting one of these desktop monitors and smashing it over Regina’s head? Well…

 

_ Well _ , she isn’t going to prison in Bumfuck, Maine, she reminds herself, rolling her eyes as Neal hops up onto Ruby’s desk. Ruby tosses her another grin as she packs up and departs with the policy director. The office is empty in minutes, everyone hurrying out as quickly as they can, and Neal laughs. “They do this every day. Sometimes I think Regina goes out for dinner early some days just to get rid of the masses.” 

 

He tosses her an easy smile. Everything about Neal is  _ easy _ , simple in a way that life had never felt before or after she’d first dated him. She’d been head-over-heels for him back then, sure that he’d been the only good thing about her life. Now, she’s…cautious, really. She knows he’d been hiding a lot of complicated secrets from her when they’d first dated, and now they’re all out there, but he seems just as uncomplicated. “You think Regina willingly does anything to let people stop working early?” Emma says skeptically. “I’ve known her a few hours and I can’t believe that.” 

 

Neal laughs again. “She doesn’t give the best first impression, does she?” 

 

“She’s a nasty piece of work,” Emma says, feeling very justified in this. “I don’t know why anyone here _listens_ to her. I get that you need some Type A kinds to get shit done, but you don’t put them in _charge_. We can’t win this election with someone like her– what?” she demands, because Neal is looking at her oddly, his smile soft.

 

“You said  _ we _ ,” he says, and Emma flushes. 

 

She hadn’t thought she’d fit in here, with all these overachieving women and men who’d thrown themselves into something as inaccessible as politics. She’d accused Neal of offering her the job out of guilt for something that had happened long ago, he’d denied it, and then she’d walked into the campaign headquarters and discovered that there hadn’t  _ been _ a job to offer. But maybe–  _ maybe _ – she might be okay at this. “Well, I guess I’m on the team now, right? Even if Regina wants me gone, which is a  _ terrible  _ way to run a campaign, by the way.” She twists to look up at him, a thought occurring to her. “I get that you don’t like to step on her toes, but didn’t you say you had a sister instrumental to the campaign team? Maybe she could talk to–” Neal’s eyes turn shifty, and Emma realizes. “No,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut. “No,  _ no _ .” 

 

“Stepsister,” Neal clarifies sheepishly. “Regina’s mom married my dad a few years back. We grew up together, though, and we’ve always been close.” He grins. “I was the surrogate big brother, though you wouldn’t have believed it from seeing us together. I remember these kids who used to pick on me in junior high. Regina marched over to them– you’ve gotta imagine this tiny shrimp of a seven-year-old, looking like she could take on the world– and absolutely verbally  _ destroyed  _ them. That’s just Regina, you know? No one screwed with me again.” 

 

“No,” Emma says, though the  _ verbally destroying _ part sounds about right. She struggles to imagine Regina and Neal as kids and does a fair approximation of a younger Neal. Regina just looks like a miniature version of herself, still in sensible pantsuits and with a withering glare. “Is that why you made her your deputy campaign manager?” 

 

Neal barks out a laugh, leaning back against one of the plastic walls that surround the field manager’s cubicles. “I didn’t make her anything. She made me the campaign manager. She thought I would be more…approachable, I guess. That people would take me more seriously.” 

 

“Oh, I take her seriously. As serious as a heart attack,” Emma grumbles, staring down at the marked-up paper in front of her. It had felt good, doing something that she’d been  _ good _ at. Neal had been right about it being a perfect fit. And then Regina had showed up to criticize it for no other reason than that Emma had been successful, and now Emma is stuck doubting herself here again. 

 

Which had been Regina’s goal in the  _ first  _ place, so why is she letting her win? Emma straightens, squinting down at the corrections. “I’m going to stay here a little longer, okay? I kind of want to do these edits now.” 

 

Neal pouts. “ _ Emma _ ,” he says in a low whine. “I thought we’d go out, celebrate your first day on the job, get a little wasted on my couch–” 

 

“So Regina can critique my hangover in the morning?” Emma says, making a face. She can already imagine it; Regina, that absurdly attractive face twisted into a sneer, casting into doubt her work ethic and her reliability and calling her a  _ blonde bimbo  _ again. “I want to get this done, okay? I’ll meet you back at your place later.” 

 

“Okay,” Neal says grudgingly, pressing a kiss to her lips. It’s casual, comfortable in the way that everything about Neal is, and Emma is glad again, somehow, that she’d found Neal again. She’d thought before that this would be closure, that she would get out all her frustrations with him and he’d apologize and then they’d never see each other again. But instead, it had been just as easy to fall back in with him. There isn’t  _ passion _ , exactly, but there’s a familiarity and a comfort that makes Emma smile. “I’m going to go clean up the candidate’s office,” Neal says, sliding off Ruby’s desk. “Regina will throw a fit if I leave you alone here.” 

 

Emma snorts. “As if I’d be working for the opposition.” The favorite candidate to win the mayoral race is Killian Jones, Professional Sleazebag. He’s some kind of hometown hero in Storybrooke– had grown up near the docks, taken up sailing, and gotten a role in the Broadway revival of  _ Peter Pan  _ as Captain Hook. He’d had a brief, mildly successful movie career, and the people of Storybrooke are wildly in love with him. Emma had been here three days and had already known he was a given.

 

“Not Jones,” Neal says. “Our primary opponent. We’re running on the Maine All Families party platform, so we go up against Mary Margaret Blanchard first. And she’s got this whole ‘Storybrooke darling’ thing going for her. Born and raised, best friends with every shopkeeper on Main Street, schoolteacher-turned-politician. She can’t beat Jones, but she’s been positioning herself as his polar opposite: the wholesome sweetheart up against the big city movie star.” 

 

Emma nods, kind of overwhelmed at all of this. She isn’t from Storybrooke. She’d met Neal in Portland, Oregon, and she’d been wandering Tallahassee when he’d found her again this weekend. She isn’t from anywhere, really, and she has no idea which of them she’d pick, Blanchard or Jones. “So where does Locksley come in?” 

 

Neal lights up. It’s the most passionate he’s seemed about  _ anything _ , really, the way he talks about the campaign. “The Locksleys– they  _ care _ , you know? They genuinely want to help make Storybrooke a better place to live. The town doesn’t control its spending well, and Main Street is well taken care of, but when you go closer to the beach and the edge of town, you can see how little money goes into the rest of the town. Marian and Regina have a whole bunch of plans for how to better allocate money and fight the disparity between the wealthier and poorer areas. We don’t really have much of a middle class in town, and that’s because Storybrooke is rigged against the working class. And Locksley wants to fix that.”

 

It’s a noble kind of idea, one Emma wouldn’t have expected from Regina of the immaculate manicure and tailored pantsuit and heels that cost more than Emma had made in a month in her last job. “Do you really think you have a chance?” she asks, and Neal grins, poking her on her arm and turning to the back office. 

 

“Regina  _ never  _ loses,” he calls over his shoulder, and there’s a strange kind of comfort in that confidence, too.

 

Emma shakes it off. Regina could use a few losses, she thinks, then shrugs off the pettiness and focuses on Regina’s corrections. They’re subtle, little changes to the script that they’re giving to volunteers, but they aren’t bad. They aren’t necessary, either, but Emma can see what Regina’s purpose was, what she’s building to with her minor shifts. The approach becomes less of a canned  _ reminder to vote! _ and more urgent, more encompassing.  _ It’s your responsibility to vote _ becomes  _ be proud to vote _ with just a few changes in syntax.

 

Regina has also added in an Oxford comma at  _ every. single. opportunity _ . Emma grimaces at the little red strokes, miffed again, and stubbornly refuses to add the commas. There has to be a limit to her dominion.

 

* * *

 

Neal is still cleaning up in the back when the door opens. Emma jumps, startled at the interruption. She’s been editing for an extra ten minutes without interruption, rewriting Regina’s edits with her own flair. She isn’t much of a writer, but she’s had her time as a con artist on the streets, and this is…essentially more of that.  _ Hear us out, join our campaign, give us money _ . The campaign has been up and running for weeks now, from the way Neal tells it. But the only publicity it seems to be getting is sparse mentions from local personalities who regard it as a bit of a joke.

 

She doesn’t know this town. She’d come with Neal because he’d been very persuasive that she might have some kind of future here, and she hadn’t had much of anything in Tallahassee. A small town in Maine had sounded like the perfect, quiet alternative to years in big cities, and it’s been a little overwhelmingly friendly so far.

 

Mostly. The least friendly person in Storybrooke has re-entered the office, glaring at Emma with a sharp look. “I haven’t stolen your campaign secrets,” Emma says dryly. “Don’t worry, Neal’s been babysitting me.” She jerks a thumb to the candidate’s office. 

 

Regina scoffs. “You know, you have two legs that work just fine without you being surgically attached to Neal,” she says, curling her lip. “You don’t have to lurk around here waiting for him.” 

 

“I’m doing  _ work _ ,” Emma says, irritated again as she shoves the paper in Regina’s face. “For  _ your  _ campaign. Are you going to fire me for that?” A hint of smugness creeps into her voice, unbidden.

 

Regina’s eyes darken. They both know that Regina  _ can’t _ , that Emma had somehow gotten this job despite Regina’s protests. It had felt good, earlier, having to endure a prissy rich bitch’s dressing down of her only to  _ win  _ anyway. Emma has spent far too many years of her life being dressed down by assholes who have found her lacking, and she basks in this tiny victory as Regina looks angrier and angrier. 

 

“Listen to me.” Regina shifts forward, her voice low and furious. “I have watched my stepbrother date girls like you for years. Blonde, cute as a button–” Her eyes sweep over Emma, an eyebrow arching as though she’s dubious of even that. “Too young for him. Vapid.  _ Trouble _ . I know exactly who you are.” 

 

“I don’t think you do,” Emma says archly, rising. “Especially if you think that  _ I’m  _ trouble for  _ him _ .” She laughs, a hint of bitterness creeping into it before she can stop, and Regina smirks as though she thinks she’s landed a blow. She’s too close, in Emma’s space, and Emma refuses to back down. “You know nothing about my relationship with Neal. You don’t even know who I am.” 

 

Regina laughs. It isn’t kind. “I can guess,” she says, pronouncing each word with a sort of fatal devastation. 

 

“Oh, mutual,” Emma says, taking a step forward. They’re eye-to-eye now, close enough that Emma can almost feel the charged electricity buzzing between them, threatening to catch fire. “Tell me,” she says, bold and irritated. “What is it that pisses you off about me working here? Is it that I’m not qualified for a job you gave to a teenager before me?” she says challengingly. “Or is it that Neal managed to do something without you micromanaging it every. Step. Of the way?” 

 

Regina’s eyes are stormy, captivating brown with a cyclone lurking beneath them. Emma can’t tear her gaze from them. “I’ve been here five hours and I can already tell that your campaign doesn’t have a chance,” Emma says, and it feels  _ good _ , finding all the right buttons to press, Regina’s breath coming short and furious. “Because no one in this town is ever going to listen to someone like  _ you _ .”

 

Regina flinches. It’s small, subtle, and a direct hit. Emma gets an instant of victory before Regina smiles coldly, straightening again. “And you’re an authority on politics?” she says, derisive. 

 

Her eyes sweep up Emma’s body, then down, lingering on her cheap jeans and fake leather jacket. Emma flushes, hot with anger and humiliation at only Regina’s once-over, and Regina smiles again, her voice low, her words breathed with ruinous precision. “You’re a little piece of blonde fluff that Neal will be besotted with for a month before he’s distracted by something shiny and new. You’re  _ no one _ . And if you do  _ anything  _ to sabotage Neal  _ or  _ the campaign– if you give me any reason–” Her eyes glint with angry warning. “I will destroy you if it is the last thing I do.” 

 

Emma laughs, a short, sharp exhale. “You’re full of it,” she says. “You’re a  _ joke _ .” It’s easier to dismiss Regina like this, even as Emma burns under Regina’s glittering, scalding smirk. “All of this is a joke,” she says, gesturing at the office. “Some nasty ego trip.” 

 

“Go to hell,” Regina sneers.

 

Emma barks out another laugh. “And spend  _ more _ time with you? Pass.” She’s gearing up for more. There’s something about Regina that makes her want to attack, to land a blow and make it  _ count _ . Regina is everything Emma hates, perfectly coiffed and perfectly insufferable and so perfectly convinced of her own superiority, and she can dish it and take it, and it’s exhilarating to push and push and push. “I don’t–” 

 

“Hey!” Neal says brightly, pushing open the back door of the office. “You’re back! I was looking at the logo, and I had this idea,” he says to Regina, tossing Emma a lopsided smile. “Take a look, okay?”

 

Emma shifts away from Regina as subtly as she can, forcing a smile. Regina’s expression doesn’t change, but it softens a bit at Neal’s enthusiasm. “I’ll check it out. I wanted to review our finances tonight, too. We have to file next Thursday and they’re still…” Her voice fades off.

 

Neal sighs. “Yeah, I know. We have that meeting with Midas on Tuesday, though. He seemed interested.” He shrugs, unworried even in the face of Regina’s tension, and wanders toward them. “Get home at a regular hour, okay?” He presses a casual kiss to Regina’s temple, big-brotherly. “We can’t have you burning out this early in the game.”

 

Regina rolls her eyes at him, but she looks gratified at his concern. “I don’t burn out,” she says.

 

Neal grins. “No, you set things on fire.” Regina snorts. Neal slides an arm around Emma’s waist. “Did you check out Emma’s last rewrite? I told you she was good.” He beams at Emma, and Regina snatches the paper from Ruby’s desk.

 

Her lip is curled when she begins to read it, and Emma waits, eyes boring holes into Regina. When Regina’s done, she looks up, her face expressionless. “This will do,” she says, and Emma doesn’t need anything more than the flash of irritation on Regina’s face as she says it to know that that had been  _ approval _ , kind of. 

 

Neal beams again. Emma smirks. 

  
Regina turns on her heel and stalks into the back office without another word, and that…oh yeah,  _ that _ is a victory, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your feedback on last chapter!! I hope you enjoy this one. :) 
> 
> Just a note, because I had some worried readers- if Henry appears in this fic, it will be in the epilogue at most! Emma and Neal are in a relationship for a chunk of the story but it is my goal and frankly my personal inclination to make it as bearable as possible. No sudden unplanned pregnancies here, promise. :)

**FEBRUARY 24**

_ 109 Days Until The Primary _

 

“Regina, it’s your mother.” Thus begins every conversation with Mother, a constant reminder that  _ no _ , Mother can’t be bothered with silly niceties like  _ saying hello _ .

 

Regina heaves a silent sigh. “I know, Mother. I saw the name on the phone.” Neal had stolen her phone and changed it to  _ QUEEN B  _ a few weeks ago (“For bee, obviously,” he’d said innocently, and she’d shoved him but left it) and she’d seen the name pop up and shut herself in the candidate’s office. She glances out the window of the door, eyes flickering to the huddle on the other end of the room. Sabine and Jacinda are conferencing with Ruby and Emma Swan, heads together as they look through palm cards. 

 

Emma Swan is speaking, gesturing earnestly, and Regina scowls at her. She’s been underfoot for  _ days  _ now, stubbornly clinging to Neal and the campaign, even after she’d done the unforgivable on her very first day. There is little Regina will forgive from her staff, to be fair, but  _ all of this is a joke _ still burns under her skin, as potent as Mother’s dismissiveness.

 

Mother is one of the most accomplished lobbyists on the East Coast, and Regina has never forgotten it for a moment. Gold-Mills Consulting has won gubernatorial elections, has sailed more than a few political figures out of scandals, and has been sought out by enough presidential candidates for Mother to drop precisely one name per family meal each week during Regina’s teenage years.

 

Though, to be fair, there hadn’t been very many family meals.

 

Regina has grown up with politics in her bloodstream, had been formulating policy analyses in preschool while her teachers had looked on in bewilderment. Many mothers tell their children that they’re going to grow up to be president; not many also accompany that with a forty-year plan, but Cora Mills had. Cora Mills always had.

 

Neal had been her only acceptable companion for a very long time. As Gold’s son, he’d been the perfect future First Gentleman, in Mother’s eyes, right up until he’d sneaked into the gossip pages for his romantic mishaps. This had been considered a failure on Regina’s part, as had the fact that she hadn’t been elected student council president in high school after a perfect campaign, as had the fact that she’d spent three years traveling the world with Daddy after high school, as had the fact that she’d taken a year off from her already delayed undergraduate program to come back to Storybrooke to try to  _ change  _ things.

 

Mother had built Storybrooke as Regina had known it, a town that coddles its wealthy and forgets everyone else. It’s why she’s so good at allocating funding, at winning over the people of their hometown. Mother knows how to make Storybrooke work for her, and Regina has grown up learning her tactics from the other side of the dining room. And Regina is determined to fight Mother’s magic with her own magic, with putting twenty-five years of training into breaking down the world that Mother had constructed.

 

Mother, naturally, is taking this as she does every single decision Regina makes: with marked disappointment. “Dear, how much longer must you continue this nonsense millennial rebellion? I saw Gregory Midas last weekend at the club, and he mentioned that he’d met with you and your little operation…” She sighs deeply. “He thought it was quaint.  _ Quaint _ , Regina!” She sounds horrified at the word.

 

Regina says, “Well, he gave us a very generous check, so he must have been impressed.” She knows Mother has seen it. They’d filed their financial contributions last week, and they hadn’t been on par with Killian Jones’s, of course, but they’d been decent, nearly half as much as Mary Margaret Blanchard had gotten. No one is standing up and taking notice of them yet, but they aren’t being written off yet, either.

 

“Yes, well,” Mother says dismissively. “Isn’t your friend Kathryn Midas helping you out with your little campaign?” A breath to recover from how much Mother knows, and then, “Has she passed the bar yet?” with just the right amount of distaste to let Regina know exactly how little she thinks of Kathryn Midas’s lawyerly capabilities.

 

Regina grits her teeth, watches the huddle of women through the office window, forces herself to smile coolly when Emma Swan glances at her. There’s a brief flash of compassion on her face, as though she’s caught sight of Regina’s humiliation and frustration. “Last year,” she says tightly. The smile on her face is false, brittle and a little mocking, and Emma rolls her eyes irritably at Regina and looks back at Jacinda instead. “She’s quite good.”

 

“Hm,” Mother says. It’s enough. As is, “Stop grinding your jaw, dear, we spent years on your orthodontics.” 

 

“Yes, Mother,” Regina says, gritting her teeth a little harder. “I’ve really got to go. They’re waiting for me.” 

 

No one is waiting for her. The foursome at the front of the room are getting their jackets, Emma Swan swinging that hideous red one around her shoulders as she gets ready to go, and Regina curls her lip and looks away as Mother says, “I forwarded you a few classes for the fall semester I thought might be appropriate for your trajectory.”

 

“The election isn’t until November,” Regina reminds her mother, as though Mother doesn’t already know. 

 

Mother says, “Regina,” in a deeply patronizing tone. “You don’t really believe you’ll still be in the election after the June primaries, do you?” Regina is stubbornly silent. Mother sighs. “Flag the email,” she instructs her. “Look through your options. The Ivies aren’t going to accept a three-term break from school for a lost cause.” With that final damning reminder, she hangs up the phone. 

 

Regina squeezes hers hard enough that her phone case leaves an imprint in her hand and pushes open the door to the office.

 

* * *

 

Regina is in a foul mood today, which is no different than any other day, really. Emma  _ likes  _ her coworkers, likes campaigning and likes coordinating volunteers, likes just about everything about her day-to-day life in Storybrooke except for Regina Mills, who continues to be impossible. “We have nine volunteers here,” Emma says, which she’s kind of proud of. They’d only had two before Emma had come along, and she’s been working hard on outreach since. “I thought we could pair one member of the crew with each of the volunteers and go door-to-door.” 

 

“Sounds good,” Neal says easily from where he’s sitting in Emma’s chair, feet propped up on the desk. “How many signatures do we need?” 

 

“At least a hundred fifty.” Ruby checks her clipboard. “So far, we have…thirty-six.” She glances toward the street ahead of them, the looming mansions on Mifflin Street in the distance. “Do we even bother with that side of town, or…?” 

 

Sabine snorts. “As though anyone there belongs to the MAF.” The Maine All Families party, from what Emma’s gleaned, is a popular political party that hasn’t won a single election in Storybrooke in decades. The dominating party– Killian Jones’s Maine American Party– tends to win quickly and easily, and rarely is there much of an opponent.

 

_ All of this is a joke _ , Emma had said on her first day here, and she hadn’t realized then exactly how true that assumption had been. She hasn’t said it since. There’s something about being in the office every day, watching how determined everyone involved is, that has her wanting to…if not  _ win _ , then be noticed, at least. Then make a little bit of a splash in the media. Then make a  _ difference _ , because they’re all fighting so hard.

 

“We do have a number of names on the list,” Ruby notes, glancing through it. “And a few on the border. Let’s have two teams go around in this neighborhood and the rest will drive out through the other side of town. Anyone?” 

 

Sabine laughs. “Wander through the snooty side of town until someone has me arrested? I’ll pass.” Tamara thumps a hand against her wrist in solidarity, and Jacinda looks amused at both of them.

 

“I’ll do it,” Emma volunteers. “I’ve got my car–” She jabs a thumb at her yellow Bug, parked on the corner right behind them. Regina makes a strangled, horrified noise. “Neal and I can go around with our volunteers–” 

 

She knows Regina’s going to object even before the scathing, “This is a political campaign, not an excuse for you two to act like a pair of oversexed adolescents–” which is an absurd claim, because Emma and Neal have never so much as  _ kissed  _ in front of Regina. Emma knows this because she spends a good portion of her time around Regina being infuriatingly aware of everything  _ Regina _ . 

 

It’s mostly because Regina will turn  _ anything  _ into a criticism of Emma. Last week, Emma had been eating a sandwich at the desk she shares with Ruby, and Regina had chosen that moment to make a grand speech about  _ keyboard eating etiquette _ , her eyes boring into Emma as Emma had chewed methodically, never looking away. Today, she’d been so distracted by Regina in the candidate’s office that she has no idea what their plan for today is. Regina had been pacing, on the phone, her expression tense and trapped. Emma can’t imagine who could possibly make  _ Regina Mills  _ feel small, and she’d been unable to think about anything else. 

 

“Fine,” Emma says, distracted again at the memory of it. “But I need someone else who knows the neighborhood, because I can barely find my way to work in the morning without the big-ass sign we have outside the office.” She gestures up at the  **IT’S THE HONOURABLE THING TO DO** sign flapping in the wind over the office door and winces, yet again, at the spelling. It’s so fucking  _ pretentious  _ in small-town Maine. 

 

Ruby shrugs. “Don’t look at me. I was invited to Regina’s house once and her mom sent me clothes that were  _ acceptable for the neighbors _ that morning.” She laughs. Regina’s lips tighten. “Regina, why don’t you take Emma and two volunteers? You’re always good at chatting up the moneyhags.”

 

Regina stares at Emma. Emma stares at Regina. Neal says brightly, still under the very flawed assumption that Emma might like Regina more with extended proximity, “That sounds like an excellent idea.” 

 

And that’s how they wind up bundled into Regina’s Mercedes (“I am  _ not  _ risking our volunteers’ lives in that metal coffin on wheels,” Regina had said when Emma had moved toward her car) with two teenage volunteers in the back seat. Gwen and Lance are huddled together in the back seat, separating the palm cards into two stacks and reading them aloud.

 

The palm cards are meant to be distributed door-to-door. They have a little picture of the candidate, a caption below it.

 

**ROBIN LOCKSLEY for STORYBROOKE MAYOR**

**_IT’S THE HONOURABLE THING TO DO!_ **

**VOTE NOVEMBER 4**

 

The candidate overview on the card is brief, a reminder that Storybrooke has for too long been ruled by  _ special interest groups _ , which here means  _ rich people _ , and that it’s time for a change. “How well are these palm cards going to go over on this side of town?” Emma ventures.

 

Regina rolls her eyes. “Same as they will elsewhere. Everyone thinks that special interest groups are the enemy. They just all have a different idea of what those special interest groups are.” She pulls over, parking on a block with spacious lawns that stretch upward, stairs winding up to distant front doors. “We have two on this block,” Regina says, glancing at one of the highest houses. “Why don’t you take a look at where we’re going next and I’ll talk to them with the kids?” 

 

From Ruby or Tamara, that might have sounded sensible. From Regina, there’s just a touch of condescension that makes it perfectly clear why she wants Emma to stay in the car. Emma bristles. “What the hell does that mean?” 

 

Regina looks at her, and Emma glares back. Regina is wearing a dress today for canvassing instead of the customary pantsuit, a black number that hugs her hips and dips a little lower at the chest than is absolutely necessary. Her lips are painted a deep red, alluring and professional at the same time, somehow, and okay, maybe that had been a little bit why Emma hadn’t been able to tear her eyes away from Regina this morning.

 

It’s  _ typical _ , really, that someone as insufferable as Regina would be so  _ fucking hot _ . Regina tilts her head, and Emma follows the curve of her lips with her eyes as they purse. “I know these families,” Regina says coolly. “I don’t think you’re a good fit for this block.” 

 

Emma snorts, far less cool. “Afraid they’ll think I’m lost and send me to the trailer park?” she demands, leaning back against the car beside where Lance had set down the palm cards on top of it. 

 

Regina’s lips twist. “If the shoe fits…”

 

Emma’s eyes narrow. “You know, for someone who claims to care so much about bridging all the gaps in Storybrooke for everyone, you’re kind of an asshole.” 

 

“Hm,” Regina says, and she swoops toward Emma, dangerously close, sliding an arm toward Emma. Emma’s mouth dries up, and she can only stare at Regina, wordless, as Regina reaches past her to take a box of palm cards from on top of the car. “Get back to me when you’re a Storybrooke resident,” she murmurs smugly, her breath brushing against Emma’s ear, and Emma jerks away from her.

 

“Fuck  _ off _ ,” she snaps, and she grabs Lance’s arm. “You. With me. Let’s go get a signature.” 

 

She drags Lance with her up to the walk, and they begin the long trek up the stairs toward the house. “Uh,” Lance says, tugging his arm out of hers at last. “No offense, but you’re a little short for this, and I’m pretty sure that I’m going to fall over.” 

 

Emma lets him go, sheepish. “Sorry, kid. We’re…I promise we’ve got a tight operation here. Regina and I just don’t mesh.”

 

Lance snorts. “I’ve noticed.” He follows her up the last few steps, high enough that they’re towering over the street, Regina with her hands on her hips as she glares at them from beside the car. She turns on her heel and walks toward another big house across the street, and Emma rings the doorbell to the house.

 

There is a very long pause, and then, crackling from an intercom, “I don’t want whatever you’re selling.” 

 

Emma winces. “We’re not selling anything. We’d like to speak with you about Robin Locksley for Storybrooke mayor.” 

 

“Who?” A pause, and then, “I’ve read about home invasions in the paper. I know what you’re trying! My friend Connie told me that you thugs came to her door and–”

 

Emma stares at the intercom in disbelief. “You think we’re here to  _ rob _ you?” Lance looks far less surprised than Emma does, leaning back against the door and watching Regina and Gwen speaking to their prospective voter across the street. “What the–” 

 

“Ma’am,” Lance cuts in. “You’re registered as a member of the Maine All Families party. We’d like to speak with you about Robin Locksley for Storybrooke mayor.” He glances at the crib sheet Emma had printed for the volunteers. “Robin Locksley is here in town on a mission: to make this town a unified place where special interest groups no longer rule. For too long, Storybrooke politics haven’t allowed the people options; and this year, we’re determined to give the citizens of Storybrooke a choice in whom they elect for mayor.” 

 

“I’m calling the police!” the woman says shrilly.

 

Emma grabs one of the palm cards from Lance and sticks it into the door. “Please, give our campaign headquarters a call if you’re interested,” she grits out, and she pulls Lance from the door, back down the steps. “I don’t know why you would subject yourself to this for  _ free _ ,” she mutters to Lance. 

 

“Have you seen Gwen?” he shoots back, gazing up at the girl in question with an expression of such peak puppy love that Emma has to grin. Regina and Gwen are now having an animated conversation with their voter, Regina’s laugh floating down the walk to the street. It’s light and easy, obviously false, and Emma grimaces and yanks a list of addresses out of the car. 

 

And  _ wait _ , even perfect Regina makes mistakes. “There’s a third house with voters registered to the MAF on this block,” Emma says, glancing around to find the house numbered  _ 37 _ . It’s further down the block, a bit more modest than the most opulent houses but still featuring enough turrets to look like a twisty castle. “Right there. Let’s do this.” She might not have gotten the first signature, but she’s going to wipe the smirk off Regina’s face–

 

–and get more signatures. Because that’s the point of this. Right. 

 

This time, she strides up to the door and knocks instead of ringing the bell. The door swings open right away, a beaming woman on the other side of it. Lance makes an odd sound, but Emma ignores him, relieved to make it this far. “Hello! What can I do for you?” She blinks around behind them, brow furrowing. “Are you lost?” 

 

When she says it, it’s much milder than Regina, without all of the judgment. “We’re here to talk to you about Robin Locksley for Storybrooke mayor,” Emma says, and the woman lights up.

 

“Oh, yes! I’ve heard all about your campaign!” she says excitedly. “I’ve been so impressed with the way that you’ve been building it up from nothing. Are you one of the team there? I don’t think we’ve ever met.” She clasps her hands together. She looks to be in her early fifties, dark hair and fair skin and just young-looking enough to give off an adorable sort of air. Emma likes her despite herself. Or maybe she’s just relieved that someone seems to care. 

 

“I’m new in Storybrooke,” Emma says, a little self-conscious. “I’m the deputy field director.” She gestures to Lance, who looks very uncomfortable. He opens his mouth to speak, and Emma hurries to introduce him first. “Lance here is one of our volunteers. We’d love for you to sign the petition to put Robin on the ballot.” 

 

The woman bobs her head. “Definitely! You children are the future of Storybrooke.” She clasps her hands together and turns to call into the house, “David, would you come here, please?” She turns back. “My husband is also registered in the MAF party,” she explains. “We can give you two! Do you have many signatures yet?” 

 

Emma stares at her empty clipboard. The woman follows her gaze, tilting her head and frowning at the sight of it. “You’re the first person I’ve gone to today,” Emma says, feeling defensive. “But we have a bunch of groups going around. It’s only a hundred fifty signatures. That’s not many.” 

 

The woman nods. “That’s true,” she says reassuringly. “And legally, any voter can put their signature down for more than one person running for the primary, so there’s no reason why anyone wouldn’t sign yours! You all have so much energy. I’ve been looking forward to–” 

 

“ _ Emma. Swan _ ,” a voice spits out from behind them, dark and furious. Emma sighs, handing the clipboard over to the woman as she turns to face Regina.

 

Regina’s eyes are flashing, and she looks absolutely livid as her eyes flicker to the woman, then to Emma again. Emma sighs. “Regina, now isn’t the time.” She turns back to the woman, whose smile has gotten strained as she hands the clipboard back to Emma. “I’m getting us some signa…oh,” she says, staring down at the name on the clipboard. 

 

_ Mary Margaret Blanchard _ is written clearly beside her signature and address, and Emma shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath. Mary Margaret Blanchard, their primary opponent, says, “Regina, I’m so glad you’re doing this. You’ve always had a gift for–” 

 

Regina tears the paper off of Emma’s clipboard and crumples it, leaving it deliberately on the ground in front of the house. Emma hisses, “Can you  _ chill _ ? She was being nice about it. A signature is a signature!” 

 

“No, that’s all right,” Mary Margaret says quickly, and she offers Regina a tentative smile. Regina stares back, face set and hard. Mary Margaret looks away. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Emma,” she says, and Emma nods back, uncertain of what she can say that won’t get her into even more trouble. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing plenty of each other soon enough.”

 

“Yeah,” Emma says, and she gives Mary Margaret an apologetic look, caught between Mary Margaret’s smile and Regina’s icy glare. “I…I’ve got to go,” she says, and Regina stalks away, Lance and Gwen trailing after her. 

 

“What,” Regina says when they’re back in the car, “the  _ hell _ ,” and she jams the car into drive, taking off with a jerk so abrupt that Emma’s knees slam into the glove compartment, “were you  _ thinking _ .” 

 

Emma rubs her knees and scowls. “I was  _ thinking _ you should maybe let me know when you decide to start us off at our opponent’s block,  _ maybe _ .” 

 

“I was very clear about who we were going to speak to! Did you even get the other signature?” Emma glares at her. They both already know  _ that _ answer. Regina screeches to a stop and then whips the car around the corner. “Why must you make every single part of my life so  _ difficult _ ?” she demands, parking hard and sending Gwen toppling into the back of Emma’s seat with a yelp. 

 

“I didn’t ask to be in your life at all!” Emma snaps. Regina is overreacting, she knows that, but she’s also biting back frustrated humiliation. She’d just been thinking that she’s been doing  _ well _ , that she actually has a chance here with Neal and the campaign and even the pleasant, quiet Storybrooke, and it’s come crashing down again with Regina’s fury. “It was an honest mistake! Can you just–” 

 

“Stay with me,” Regina orders. “Gwen, you’ll take Lance around on this block. I’ll take Emma.”  _ Take Emma _ , as though she’s another hapless teen. God, why is Regina so  _ awful _ . 

 

But Emma follows after her, her shoulders slumped and feeling every part the hapless teen as Regina makes the rounds on the block. Regina walks up these lawns with confidence, clipboard in hand and a fixed smile on her face, and she mutters behind her teeth, “Don’t say anything. Just smile,” as she rings the doorbell.

 

The door opens, and the man behind it eyes them curiously. “Cora’s girl,” he says, his eyes lighting up in recognition. “Isn’t it?” 

 

Regina beams at him, the charm dripping from her words and so  _ fake  _ that Emma wants to laugh aloud. She does not. “Yes, I am Regina Mills,” Regina says. “I see you’re registered as a member of the Maine All Families party. I’d like to talk to you about Robin Locksley for Storybrooke mayor.” 

 

“Mayor, eh?” The man’s brow creases. “Isn’t Killian Jones running for mayor?” 

 

Regina laughs, a light tinkle. “Well, yes, but let’s give him a run for his money, yes?” She launches into an explanation of Robin’s policies, and it’s genuine, animated and thoughtful and full of energy. That’s the most infuriating thing about Regina– she seems to  _ care _ , no matter how much she despises Emma. It’s beginning to give Emma a complex.

 

The man grins. “I like you,” he says, cutting Regina off in the middle of her explanation of their financial reallocation plan. “Where do I sign?” Regina holds out the clipboard, falling silent. “I thought Killian Jones was exactly Cora’s kind of man,” the man says musingly, and Emma catches Regina’s smile falter for a moment. “This should be an interesting election season.” 

 

“To be sure,” Regina says brightly, and the man glances down her dress once before they make their way to the next house. 

 

They zigzag through the streets, Regina leaving specific houses for Gwen and Lance. “Easier hits,” she says, snorting dismissively as they walk past one. The woman at the door is speaking to Lance, her voice loud as she says, again and again, how  _ impressed  _ she is that he’s  _ such a nice young man  _ doing his  _ civic duty _ . “They’re the ones who think they’re progressive. They’ll talk up Robin and then vote for Jones in a moment of panic.” 

 

Emma smirks. Oh, yeah, she knows the type. “But a signature is a signature.” 

 

“Exactly.” Regina sounds pleased, her stride slowing to something casual as they head to the next house. There’s no reminder for Emma to be quiet this time, but Emma does anyway, wary of setting Regina off when they’re coexisting in peace. 

 

Again, the woman who comes to the door after the butler– because of course there’s a  _ butler _ – summons her recognizes Regina. “Your mother’s up for a challenge this time, isn’t she?” she says. “Killian Jones!” She swoons a little as Emma stares at her in bemusement and Regina just stares, her smile thin and forced. “Isn’t he charming? I suppose you’ll be working quite intimately against him, won’t you?” She signs the petition with a wink.

 

Most of the wealthy side town seems to know Regina, and all of them seem to assume that she’s working for her mother. Emma watches the way Regina’s smiles turn brittle at the reminder, the way she recovers quickly and plays along, and she ventures when they’re heading back to the car, “So your mom’s kind of a big deal around here, huh?” 

 

Regina doesn’t turn to face her. “Have I ever given the impression that I would enjoy small talk with you?” she says, and Emma falls silent again.

 

She remembers suddenly being seventeen, stretched out on the back of the Bug with Neal beside her, watching the stars as Neal had muttered,  _ my dad is getting married to a royal bitch this week.  _

 

_ That sucks _ , Emma had said, though she had thought instead of having a father, and of what it might mean to be secure enough in your family that you can run off to Portland and skip a wedding without worrying about repercussions.

 

_ Yeah _ , Neal had said, and Emma had felt guilty and petty over it.  _ I’m getting a couple of decent sisters out of it, at least _ , and he’d looked almost wistful about that, so fond of his stepsisters-to-be that Emma had been jealous again. 

 

He hadn’t mentioned his stepsisters again during the duration of their relationship, the first time around; and when they’d met in Tallahassee, he’d been adamant that his sister would be the one who’d help Emma adjust to Storybrooke. She’s pretty sure that this isn’t what he’d meant, chasing Regina around Storybrooke with a stack of palm cards, lurking behind her as they speak to voters and doing absolutely nothing but feeding Regina’s contempt.

 

They exhaust all the MAF houses in the neighborhood within a few hours, and Gwen says, “We have almost forty signatures just between our two groups now.” She’s tucked in cozily beside Lance, who has an arm around her and looks very thrilled at this fact. “Are we done for the day?” 

 

“We have a few more blocks that aren’t being covered by anyone,” Regina says, checking her lists. “Right on the other side of the shopping center.” 

 

The shopping center is the dividing line between Storybrooke’s two halves, one long street of Mom-And-Pop shops and then a flat, one-floor superstore where Emma’s pretty sure no one they’ve seen today has ever set foot. Emma had gone there to pick up toothpaste and a few new shirts when she’d come to town, and she’d seen half-empty shelves and few workers. The superstore figures significantly into the plans that the Locksleys and Mulan and Regina have been working on to bring in more visitors to Storybrooke.

 

As soon as they cross Main Street, moving to the squat three-family houses behind the superstore, the sprawling lawns and spacious streets are gone. This area is more of a bridge, the last vestiges of middle class mixing together with working-class big families. Neal’s apartment is near here, another act of rebellion against his father, but most of the apartments here are bursting with too many kids and not enough space. The kids are spilling out of their houses even now, dangling from crooked railings and riding little plastic bikes, a pair of exhausted-looking mothers supervising them from their stairs. 

 

Gwen and Lance make a beeline for the mothers, and Regina glances at her paper and then starts toward the first house on the block. There are no answers at the first two doors, but the third swings open and a man squints down at them distrustfully. “Yeah?” 

 

“Hi,” Regina says, flashing him a smile. “Is this Ali Naaji?” The man continues to stare at her, and she launches into their speech without batting an eyelash. “We’d like to speak with you about Robin Locksley for Storybrooke mayor.” 

 

The man– Ali– stares at her. “Yeah, I’ve heard of you,” he says, tilting his head. “Running around town, talking about  _ change. _ ” He snorts. “Thing I can’t figure out is why your stuffy white boy is any better than the other side’s stuffy white girl.” 

 

Regina takes a breath, smiling winningly up at Ali. “Robin Locksley is here in town on a mission–” 

 

Ali scoffs. “To win. No one gives a damn about us. You think I don’t know who you are, Mills?” he says. “I went to school with your sister.” 

 

“You know Zelena,” Regina looks very uncertain about how to interpret this reveal. “She’s a character, isn’t she?” 

 

“She tried to run me over with her Mercedes in the parking lot,” Ali says flatly. Emma lets out a startled little laugh, and Regina’s eyes snap to her accusingly. 

 

Emma ignores her for a moment, catching Ali’s gaze instead. “You know what our guy has over Mary Margaret Blanchard?” she says boldly. Regina elbows her  _ hard _ , a reminder to  _ shut up and follow my lead _ . Emma says, “Robin Locksley grew up like you and I did. Not like these rich girls playing at politics.” She waves a hand to Regina, whose eyes are dark and furious. “He  _ knows  _ what it’s like to have nothing, you know? To wake up some mornings and have no idea where your next meal is coming from. To have no work because no one will  _ hire  _ you because you look like shit and feel like shit all the time.” 

 

Ali is nodding slowly, and Emma feels more self-conscious than ever under Regina’s glare, in her cheap clothes and with too much of the past five years written on her skin. “Robin got lucky and married someone with enough money to pull him out of that funk,” Emma says, holding out a palm card. Ali takes it. “And maybe we don’t have a chance of changing anything. But if you give us your signature and your vote, we might be able to stop Killian Jones from making this town even more of a crapshoot, yeah?” 

 

“Yeah,” Ali says, and he smiles at her, a crinkle in his eye that has Emma invigorated. “I can do that, I think.”

 

As soon as his door is closed again, Regina practically breathing down Emma’s neck, Regina mutters, “Strong words from the woman who’s living with my brother instead of paying rent.” 

 

Emma ignores her, still flushed with the victory of getting through to someone. She’d done it, and she’d done it in front of  _ Regina _ , which somehow makes it mean even more. Nothing is going to bring her down right now. 

 

And nothing does. Instead, Regina says grudgingly, “You take the lead on the next door,” a concession that might be approving. Emma takes a breath of sweet, sweet validation, and she grins to herself and raps on the second door on the porch. 

 

* * *

 

Regina slips into the candidate’s office again once they’re back in campaign headquarters, teams of workers and volunteers flushed with victory as they count up their signatures. It had been a productive day, in spite of hiccups, but five hours with Emma Swan had been enough to justify finding the scotch where Neal hides it in the bottom drawer and pouring herself two fingers of it. 

 

She keeps an eye on Emma as Neal spins her around, pressing a kiss to her forehead, and a low heat of irritation rises in her belly at them. Emma is a little more grounded than Neal’s last few girlfriends, perhaps, but she’s already  _ trouble _ . Regina burns, still, remembering Mary Margaret beaming at her, playing her in that uniquely faux-innocent way that Mary Margaret plays fucking  _ everyone _ . Emma is an idiot, same as Neal, same as all the girls who have gotten Neal into the papers again and again.

 

It had been one thing to bail Neal out of jail after Tina– to drive deep into the neighborhood they’d called  _ Neverland _ to save his life after Wendy and Peter– to talk down Gold after Morraine. It’ll be another thing entirely if Emma turns Neal and this campaign into a laughingstock, and Regina will never forgive herself if she stands by and watches it happen.

 

At least goddamned Tina had been  _ likable _ . Emma isn’t even that, prickly and smug and obnoxious even when she’s making a fool of herself, and Regina is seized at times by the need to grab Emma in her moments of supreme confidence– she’d  _ swaggered  _ after she’d gotten Ali Naaji’s signature today, and Regina had wanted to slam her against a wall, watch her eyes dilate and her breath come faster and faster, to show her  _ exactly  _ who she’s fucking with–

 

The phone rings, and Regina blinks at it, her heart pounding in her chest without any cause for it. She snatches it up. “Mills.” 

 

“Regina,” the voice on the other end says. It’s Sidney, one of the reporters she’s gotten to know over the years. He’s had a crush on her since he’d been her tutor in high school, and she’s fed it carefully, used it and him to control the local Storybrooke newspaper as well as she can. It’s not much, compared to Mother’s reach, but it’s useful. “I heard you went out canvassing today.” 

 

She pours a little more scotch, catches Emma in Neal’s arms in the next room, her eyes catching Regina’s through the big glass window of the door. “What do you have for me?” Regina demands, curt and no longer in the mood. 

 

Sidney sighs. “No news from your mother yet. There is something, though.” Regina waits. “Why don’t we meet at Granny’s for dinner and I’ll tell you about it?” 

 

“Why don’t you tell me now?” Regina counters, then forces herself to soften her tone. “I’m a little pressed for time with the campaign right now,” she says, apologetic. “We have a March deadline to get on the ballot.” 

 

“Of course,” Sidney says, sounding disappointed. “It’s nothing solid, as far as I know. Just whispers.”

 

“Whispers?” 

 

Sidney coughs. “Your brother Neal and that girlfriend of his,” he says, and Regina drinks woodenly, stares at Emma Swan with eyes that bore into her,  _ I knew it, I knew it, I knew it  _ an endless litany in her mind. “There’s gossip afoot. I haven’t gotten my finger on the pulse of it yet, but…” His voice trails off suggestively. “Be careful, Regina,” he says.

 

Emma grins at her through the glass, always smug, always challenging. “I always am,” Regina says softly, each word feeling dangerous as the thrumming purr of a bobcat, and she hangs up deliberately, swallowing the last of the scotch and setting her glass down.  _ I knew it, I knew it _ is a dull roar of thunder she doesn’t try to shake.

 

Her eyes never leave Emma Swan’s.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're gonna try Tuesday updates for now! I'm gonna snag y'all SOMETIME.

**MARCH 17**

_ 86 Days Until the Primary _

 

Neal and Regina push the doors to the office open together, faces flushed and beaming, and Sabine lets out a whoop as the Locksleys enter behind them. “We’re in,” Neal pronounces. “Paperwork submitted and we are officially on the ballot!”  

 

“Yes!” Ruby says, making a fist, and Neal high-fives both her and Mulan before he sweeps Emma into a kiss. It’s fast and energized, more than Emma likes for them to display in front of his friends, but it’s also  _ ballot day _ and she cuts him a little slack for it. She laughs nervously and pulls away, eyes flickering to Regina self-consciously. 

 

Regina is being pulled into a hug by Tamara and isn’t looking at Emma at all. Which,  _ good _ . The others might assume Emma only has this job because of who she’s dating; but they’ve never said a word about it, while Regina will pounce wherever she can. Never mind that Emma’s the lowest-ranking member of their cobbled-together campaign team. Never mind that she’s been working nearly nonstop in the past few weeks, struggling to coordinate volunteers and drum up support and get as many signatures as they can. 

 

Emma has been delegated by Ruby to take charge of arranging an upcoming barbecue to build on their momentum, and maybe actually get some publicity. “The candidate could save a dozen kids from a burning building and Killian Jones would still wink at a reporter and win the news cycle,” Ruby has complained on more than one occasion. Regina’s boyfriend or…whatever in the press has gotten them an article and an interview, but no one in Storybrooke under the age of fifty is reading the local newspaper. They need radio and TV interest, and so far, they have none. 

 

The point is, Emma’s been working  _ hard _ , and Regina still strolls in with snide criticisms and prodding suggestions. “Somehow, I seem to always come here at your lunch break,” she’d said, nose in the air, last Thursday, as though she doesn’t deliberately wander over to Ruby and Emma’s nook at 12:33 each day. Emma’s beginning to suspect that Regina  _ enjoys  _ finding fault with Emma, picking fights for the sake of blowing off a little steam. It makes for a predictable little break in the workday, a few minutes to fight a far more present rival than Blanchard or Jones.

 

Then there are times when Regina watches her with Neal, brow furrowed, and there’s something dark and suspicious gleaming in her eyes. She looks at Emma like a puzzle she’s trying to piece together, and that cool, imperious glare makes Emma shiver. And seethe, because she hasn’t hated anyone in a long time like she hates Neal’s superior asshole of a stepsister.

 

So it’s absolutely a relief that Regina is engrossed in conversation with Tamara and Robin Locksley right now, and she hasn’t even paused to glower at Emma. Their glowers have taken on languages of their own, a communication unique to them that Emma has been expecting for the hours since Regina had left this afternoon to file their petitions. 

 

_ Whatever _ . They’re on the  _ ballot _ , and that’s what matters most about today. “This calls for a celebration!” Robin proclaims, and they all cheer, giddy with their first big step of the process. “Drinks on me, and no one goes in to the office until noon,  _ Regina _ .” He says her name fondly, and Marian Locksley loops an arm around Regina’s waist and kisses her cheek, Regina rolling her eyes at both of them. 

 

“I’ll have to steal her keys,” Neal says, and he does a signature  _ bump _ that Emma knows from their months together, the pickpocket move that leaves Regina’s keys dangling from his fingers. Regina scowls at him, and Neal beams until Regina sighs and says, “ _ Fine _ .” 

 

Neal’s hand relaxes and Regina’s snatching back the keys a moment later, smirking at them all. “I’ll work from home until noon,” she concedes. 

 

“I’m going to get you  _ wasted _ ,” Neal says gleefully, and then he tilts his head to find Emma again. “Both my girls. You’ve been working too hard.” 

 

_ Ah _ , there’s the glower, and everything is right in this world again. Emma meets Regina’s glare boldly, unfazed at her disdain, and says, her eyes never leaving Regina’s, “A night out sounds great.” 

 

Regina’s lip curls. Tamara snickers. “Whatever it takes for you two to unwind a little,” she says, and Regina does  _ not  _ set her on fire with the force of her glare, though she certainly tries.

 

Tamara is the only other out-of-towner in the crew, but Regina has never treated her with the same barely disguised disgust as she does Emma. Tamara had been Neal’s roommate in college, years and years ago, two political science majors who’d been polar opposites and gotten along fine anyway. She describes Regina as Neal’s kid sister long before they’d actually been stepsiblings, arriving in town and crashing on their couch for weekends spent shopping and doing Neal’s coursework for him.

 

Emma can’t imagine Regina as anyone’s kid  _ anything _ ; except for moments like this one, Neal tugging Regina away from Marian so Regina can rest her head against his shoulder, muttering irritably under her breath. It’s oddly soft for a woman who is all sharp edges and molded curves, and Emma’s eyes are glued to her for a moment, feeling almost illicit in her peek at Regina.

 

Then Regina catches sight of her watching and straightens again, Emma an object of scorn. “Isn’t it past her bedtime?” she says. She never misses a chance to remind them exactly how much younger Emma is than Neal. Emma wonders how she’d take it if she’d find out how young Emma had been five years ago, when she’d first met Neal. Somehow, Regina would find a way for it to be Emma’s fault, she’s sure.

 

“Be nice,” Neal says, beckoning for Emma. Emma just lifts an eyebrow and he sighs, good-naturedly defeated, and turns to everyone else. “Well? Let’s go mooch off our candidate.”

 

They wind up in the backseat of Regina’s car, Emma squashed between Neal and Ruby as Jacinda and Regina chat in the front. “The problem with the TV spots is that no one watches those unless they’re already invested in the race,” Jacinda is saying. “We need to make the breaking news blurb.” She sighs. “The narrative right now is about Blanchard, and if we show up any later, we’re going to look like the bad guy.” 

 

“We need to be the underdog,” Regina agrees. She sounds surly. “No one’s going to see Blanchard as the villain.” 

 

Jacinda puts a hand on Regina’s arm. “Babe,” she says, sympathetic. That’s the consistently bewildering thing about the campaign team: the number of people who seem to genuinely  _ like _ Regina. Jacinda is one of Regina’s friends from the neighborhood, from what Emma has gleaned, and Sabine and Jacinda are a package deal. Sabine runs a little bakery down the block from the campaign headquarters, and Jacinda takes over her job with the campaign when she’s out. They’re roommates, Emma thinks, who live somewhere on the shabbier side of town. 

 

She finally feels like she’s beginning to know most of the team now, an outsider slowly finding her place with them. Ruby’s an old classmate of Regina’s from school who had joined the campaign mostly because she’d been afraid she’d spend the rest of her life waitressing at her grandmother’s diner. Mulan had been Neal’s neighbor growing up, but it had been Robin and Marian who had brought her onto the team. Their lawyer, Kathryn Midas, is another one of Regina’s classmates, and the campaign treasurer is a woman with the dubious name Ella DeVille whom Regina had plucked out of what had sounded suspiciously like an embezzlement sting and hired. 

 

And  _ Emma’s _ the one Regina worries about,  _ please _ . 

 

She glares at the back of Regina’s neck for the duration of the drive to the bar, at the slim column of it peeking out from behind Regina’s short-cropped dark hair. Regina has the movie-star look of a femme fatale, effortlessly leaving a trail of heartbroken men behind as she schemes and manipulates. In her pantsuits and campaign headquarters, that translates into the dangerously attractive kind of woman who knows it and uses it to cow those around her.

 

Emma has never been good at being cowed. She clambers after Ruby from the car, straightening and brushing off her jacket as Regina emerges from the driver’s seat. “Such a pleasure to be out with you tonight,” Regina drawls, acerbic, and her voice drops to a threatening purr. “Don’t pick any fights while we’re with the candidate. This isn’t Tallahassee.” 

 

_ What.  _ Emma’s head jerks to glare at her. “What are you– did you  _ background check me _ ?” she demands. Yeah, she’d had a few bar brawls in Tallahassee, years ago, when she’d first arrived there and had been raring for a fight. She’d spent a night in a suburban jail  _ once _ , sleeping off a bad hangover and released with a warning in the morning. How the  _ hell _ did Regina find out about that?

 

At least she doesn’t know about Portland. If she’d known about Portland, she wouldn’t have waited until they’d gotten in the car to mention it. Those records are thankfully sealed away for good.

 

Regina lifts her chin, a regal silhouette against the setting sun, and Emma hates her a tiny bit more for this moment– feeling small and exposed, another piece of her past dredged up for Regina to lose even more respect for her.  _ As if  _ she’d had any to begin with. Not that Emma gives a damn whether or not Regina has any respect for her.

 

“Hey.” It’s Neal, sidling around the car to tug Emma against him. Emma doesn’t move, stiff and uncomfortable, and Neal looks at her askance. “What’s up, Em?” 

 

“We were having a little chat about her past,” Regina says primly, and Neal’s face whitens. Emma swallows, looking down. When she looks up, Regina is watching Neal, not her. “Anything you want to share with the class,  _ Baelfire _ ?” She drawls out the first name that Neal never uses with familial familiarity and a little bit of bitter accusation.

 

_ Fuck _ . Emma is tense between them. This has everything to do with her, but she senses the tension between them, the betrayal and hurt lingering in Regina’s words. Regina is angry at Neal, and Emma is caught in the crossfire. “Regina,” Neal says, and then he stops. “I don’t know what you think you’ve found out, but–” 

 

Regina grabs his arm and yanks him with her, Emma trailing behind them as they enter the bar. “ _ Nothing _ ,” she says, her voice low. Emma has to strain to hear them. “I’ve found out nothing, and I know you think you’re protecting  _ her _ –”

 

“It’s not a big deal,” Neal says swiftly. “Look, you know everything that matters. I wouldn’t keep anything from you if I didn’t have a reason for it. Okay?” 

 

Regina is silent, and Neal shuffles awkwardly, gives her a halfway hug and heads out toward where Marian and Mulan are pushing together two tables. Regina doesn’t move from her spot, and in the dim lighting at the front door, Emma lingers in the shadows, watching. Neal isn’t  _ lying _ , exactly, but he’s hiding more from Regina than he’s letting on, and Emma feels a prickle of distaste at it. Maybe it’s only because of the way Regina stands, twisting her fingers together and closing her eyes as though stricken by Neal’s secrets. 

 

She shakes her head, snapping herself out of it, and moves past Regina into the room. Regina follows a moment later, and she pointedly takes a seat down the table from Neal, sliding in beside Tamara in the little booth that surrounds one of their tables. Robin takes the empty seat beside her, chatting genially, and Emma can see Regina begin to relax at the promise of shop talk.

 

Emma sits with Neal, who seems perturbed. “You okay?” she murmurs, just loud enough for him to hear. 

 

“Yeah,” he says, but he shoots another guilty look at Regina. She refuses to look his way. “I’m sorry Regina won’t drop…you know. Portland.” 

 

Emma shrugs, unwilling to speak about it any more than necessary. “Want me to get drinks?” she offers to the table. She gets the drinks with Sabine’s help, carrying glasses and a bottle back to the table. They’ve all been going a little stir-crazy in the office, and they’re loud and happy here, despite the siblings brooding on either end of the table. 

 

She passes out the drinks, keeping track of everyone’s orders as best as she can. She’d done a brief stint in a bar, apprenticing under a bartender who had thought she’d had potential. The pay had been subpar, the groping worse than that, and she’d run off after three weeks without bothering to quit. It’s enough to impress the table, though. “And finally, a French 75 for Regina,” she proclaims, setting it down in front of Regina. Regina stares balefully at her. 

 

The others ooh. Emma blinks, noticing one last drink on the tray. “I missed one?” 

 

“My lovely wife’s,” Jacinda says, grinning up at Sabine, and she plucks it off the tray as Sabine slides in beside her again. 

 

“Wife?” Emma repeats, startled. “I thought you were roommates.” So maybe she doesn’t  _ quite  _ know everyone yet. 

 

Sabine huffs out an amused breath. “That comes with the territory, yes. Why?” she says, almost innocently. “Do you have a problem with lesbians?” 

 

“What?” Emma sputters, sitting down. “Why would you– I didn’t mean–” 

 

“It would explain a lot about…well, you know,” Tamara says slyly, and Emma stares at her in abject betrayal, baffled at what is happening in the room.

 

“I don’t have a problem with lesbians!” Emma says, bewildered and flushing for no particular reason. “Go– love each other, whatever you…” 

 

Regina’s voice cuts through her stumbling. “Enough,” she says, and the table falls quiet, abashed. Emma blinks around at them, mystified at what had just transpired, and looks helplessly at Neal. He’s still sulking, staring into his drink and oblivious to the conversation.

 

Robin clears his throat. “Well, I support lesbians as well,” he says grandly. “And all of our wonderful team. When Marian first proposed the idea of running for office, I didn’t think that I would stand a chance. But with all of you with me, I can’t imagine us ever losing.” He raises his glass. “To all of you.” 

 

Glasses clink and drinks are downed. Robin clears his throat, wrapping a chummy arm around Regina, who looks startled and then discomfited. Emma’s eyes narrow. “And of course, to our most valiant warrior, who has devoted all her time to the cause from the start,” he says, beaming down at her. “To Regina Mills, fearless leader.” 

 

Marian grins, Tamara lifts her glass, Ruby and Sabine cheer, and they all raise their glasses. Regina is flushing in the light of the bar, and only Neal is too distracted to toast, finishing his drink and staring into the glass in melancholy. Emma begins to raise her glass, only to catch sight of Regina across the table, watching her with hooded eyes. 

 

She tips the glass ever so slightly instead, barely raising it, and Regina smirks without any humor in her eyes. 

 

* * *

 

Robin still has his arm around her, weighing heavily on her shoulders, and Regina doesn’t know how to duck away without drawing attention to it. This is one of the Storybrooke bars that straddles both sides of town without committing to one or the other Storybrooke extreme, clean and dimly lit and easy to be overlooked in. Regina is always aware of  _ that _ , of what happens when the media could be anywhere, of every potential scandal in the making.

 

_ Almost _ every, and she stares at Neal and Emma again, struggles to figure out what exactly it is that Neal is hiding. For all his hapless romances, one thing has remained consistent about them: he always,  _ always _ tells Regina what’s going on. Regina has saved him from himself a dozen times in the meantime, has dropped everything and risked her mother’s wrath to help him.

 

And now…now, when there’s something more at stake than Neal’s reputation; now, over some  _ nothing _ like Emma Swan…Neal has decided to protect her and shut Regina out. It burns like little Neal has ever done before. Regina doesn’t give out her loyalty easily, and she trusts even less easily. Neal  _ knows  _ that. What the  _ fuck  _ could be so important to hide from her–

 

She finishes her drink, Robin’s big arm still heavy around her, and she says abruptly, “I’m going to get a refill,” taking the opportunity to stand and free herself from his grip. Marian trails after her, murmuring something to the same effect.

 

Marian is the closest thing Regina’s ever had to a best friend. The others call themselves friends but had rarely been more than acquaintances, women who had somehow found someone worth knowing in Regina and been easygoing enough to deal with her. Regina keeps them at a distance, careful to never expose too much of herself.

 

Marian had been just like them, a distant sort of friend from the block who’d been a few years older than Regina and had married a Brit– (“A  _ Brit _ , Regina, and he’s quite charming even if it hadn’t been a lucrative match,” Mother had sighed, back when she’d been desperate for Regina to marry  _ anyone _ )– and moved into a big house that had been dangerously close to the other side of town. And then, seven years ago, Regina had been excised from her home as neatly as Mother might a discolored rose from a vase, and Neal had been off  _ finding himself _ and she’d just wanted to call Daddy. 

 

She’d arrived at the Locksleys with a tearstained face and Marian had guided her in, had plied her with cocoa and a soft plantain and coconut soup that had brought back memories of Daddy’s house, of family crowded around her and laughter and love that had been nothing like Mother’s austere and silent home. She’d told Marian everything, had fallen asleep against her on the couch that night and several nights that had followed, and she had stayed at the Locksleys until she’d left with Daddy to escape the town that Mother had built.

 

She hadn’t returned until she’d been summoned home for the Gold-Mills wedding, had kept in touch with Marian only and had had sparse communications with Neal between business trips. Neal hadn’t been there for the wedding, a disappointment, but Marian had, and Regina had stayed close to her and Zelena throughout it and left again as quickly as she could, enduring sugary statements of acceptance from Mother that hadn’t been acceptance at all.

 

Marian has been with her through far too much, even when Neal hadn’t, and Regina relaxes only in her presence. “What’s going on?” Marian murmurs now, tucking Regina’s hair behind her ear. “If it’s Sabine playing games…”

 

“No,” Regina says, shaking her head. “No, that’s fine. I’m just…” She remembers Emma on that first day, too close and aflame with righteous indignation,  _ is it that Neal managed to do something without you micromanaging it every step of the way?  _ Absurd. But there’s always the creeping insecurity that that’s how people really see her, that even Marian might think that she’s overreacting to Neal keeping something from her. “It’s been a long day, I guess,” she says finally, glancing over to where Neal is sitting, nursing a drink with a bottle beside him. Emma has vanished for the time being.  _ Small favors _ . She’s usually glued to his side.

 

Marian doesn’t push. “Come back to the table when you’re ready,” she says gently. “Some downtime will do us all well. You’ve been working so hard,  _ hormiguita _ .” Regina doesn’t answer, feeling very lost, and Marian squeezes her hand and retreats to the table.

 

Neal is drinking again, too much, and on a regular night, Regina would have already wrested the bottle from him. She itches to stop him anyway, an instinct to mother a man six years her senior, and she has to force herself to turn away, to edge away from their table to where she can take a few minutes on her own.

 

Instead, of course, she’s rudely interrupted from her thoughts by a laugh she recognizes at once, despite having never heard it in person. “Come on, love, you can’t tell me that such a  _ captivating  _ lass would be alone in a pub like this,” Killian Jones is purring in that affected accent he’d picked up for  _ Peter Pan _ , and Regina wrinkles her nose, shifting away. Better to avoid any confrontation between candidates, unless it might get them some media attention–  _ no _ , she hasn’t figured out that narrative yet. 

 

Then the girl he’s hitting on responds, and Regina freezes. “I didn’t say I was alone,” Emma says, her voice low and amused. “I just said I was getting my own drink.”

 

“Well, that’s nonsense,” Jones says grandly. “Let me pick up your tab, love.”

 

Yet again, Emma is going to humiliate them in her pure  _ ignorance _ , is going to make a fool out of the campaign against their opponent before they even make it to primary. Regina tenses, frozen in place, wondering if this might be the excuse she needs to get rid of Emma. Fire her, end that toxic relationship she’s bound to have with Neal, get her out of town–

 

A flicker of doubt sparks in her throat before she can clear it, a sudden reminder of exactly how much Emma’s gotten done in the office until now. Ruby is great with people, but Emma has the motivation and time that Ruby lacks, the drive to keep pushing the envelope instead of contentedly following a script. Can they afford to lose Emma?

 

_ For fuck’s sake _ . Of course they can, because she’s going to destroy them.

 

Emma relaxes against the door, still with a smirk playing at her lips, and Jones leans in, taking it as invitation. Emma taps a finger to his chest, thoughtful, and says, “You know what I really want?” 

 

Jones almost purrs. Regina watches, disgusted. Emma says, still smirking, “I want to know exactly why your policy proposals seem to favor the continued imbalance in taxation in this town. And what are you doing about the high rate of teenage incarceration in Storybrooke?” She lifts her gaze, glancing over Jones’s shoulder to meet Regina’s eyes smugly.

 

Regina’s eyebrows shoot up before she can mask her surprise. Jones splutters. Emma waits, serene, and Jones mutters, “Bitch,” and slinks away, only for another figure to slam into him as they watch, shoving him hard. It’s Neal, eyes already bloodshot and wild, and he looks at Emma and then Regina and slams the heel of his hand into Jones’s chest.

 

“ _ Neal _ ,” Emma says, frustrated.

 

Neal shoves Jones again, and Jones’s eyes clear. “Neal Gold,” he says, because of  _ course  _ in  _ fucking  _ small-town Maine, someone in their party is bound to have a history with their opponent. “I remember you. Well, I remember your mother.” He says it lewdly, catching Neal’s too-slow fist and shoving him against a wall beside them. 

 

“Fuck you,” Neal snarls, his voice slurred and angry. “Get the fuck away from my girlfriend, you son of a bitch.” He lifts his fist again, clenched and shaky, and this time, it nearly hits Jones. Jones ducks and punches Neal,  _ hard _ , slamming him against the wall again until Neal’s head lolls back. 

 

Regina snaps out a curse, a sharply worded warning at Jones, but it’s Emma who moves. She wraps her fingers around Jones’s wrist, twisting it with surprising force, and Jones yelps in agony. He goes for Emma with his other fist and Emma ducks, knees him in the gut, claps his chin with her forearm and gives him a light kick that topples him to the ground. “Rule of thumb: don’t flirt with the opposition,” she says coolly.

 

Regina stares, a little flushed at the ease with which Emma had flattened the man. She’d moved like she’s done it before, the clumsy woman who trips thrice on her way to her desk suddenly graceful and lethal, and it’s…something.  _ Damn  _ is it something. She wonders about Tallahassee, suddenly, Emma brawling with men twice her size there and winning with that cocky smirk. 

 

Why is it so warm in this bar tonight?

 

At her frozen silence, Emma slips an arm under Neal, who’s losing his balance against the wall, and struggles to support him. “Come on, you big idiot,” she says tiredly, and Neal grunts and slips against her. 

 

Regina sighs, joining her on Neal’s other side to help. “Let’s get him to my car,” she says, feeling a flash of guilt for tonight. He should have just  _ told  _ her, but she shouldn’t have brought it up during what should have been a victorious evening. “Before we get banned from this bar for your little stunt.” She flushes again, unbidden.

 

Emma eyes her curiously, then laughs. They’ve made it out of the bar, and the night is cool, mid-March temperatures just chilly enough that Regina shivers without a jacket. “It really pisses you off that I didn’t make a fool of myself tonight, doesn’t it?” 

 

Regina refuses to answer. She clicks her keys to unlock her car door, and they hoist Neal into the car, buckling him into the passenger seat. Regina shuts the door behind him, wrapping her arms around herself as she stares into the glass window of the bar and checks her cell. So far, no flashbulbs, no journalists, no one with a phone uploading the footage to Twitter. It’s a shame. There are a number of Storybrooke citizens who would have been happy to see Killian Jones beaten up by a girl.

 

_ That’s  _ a narrative. She feels a sudden warmth at it, and then another warmth, settling over her as Emma drapes her jacket over Regina’s shoulders. “You’re shivering,” Emma says, peeking out at her from under her eyelashes, and Regina’s cheeks are hot again. 

 

She scoffs, shrugging the jacket off so it falls to the ground. “I’d rather catch pneumonia than be seen in a cheap pleather monstrosity,” she says, feeling a little nastier at it, a little more steady on her feet. Emma just laughs at her, snatching up her coat and still giddy from her victory. 

 

“I got home from canvassing that day and memorized the faces and names of every person we might go up against,” she says smugly. “Did you know that Leroy from the hospital custodial staff is mounting an independent bid? He has his own Facebook page with three fans. One of them is a nun.”

 

It takes every single bit of Regina’s willpower not to laugh. “Tell me I don’t pay you for this,” she says, long-suffering. Emma Swan tonight is something  _ different _ , somehow, lighter and unburdened. Maybe it’s the gin.

 

Emma ducks into the car, a flash of golden hair tumbling down her back, eyes sparkling and beautiful. Regina winces, shivering again.  _ Definitely  _ the gin. She wonders if she should drive at all, but her mind is clear again when she looks away from Emma, when she stops thinking about Emma and focuses on the road. “You don’t pay me at all,” Emma says, always bullish, even when they’re getting along. “The candidate hired me, remember? You wanted me gone.” 

 

“I still want you gone,” Regina mutters, eyes fixed on the windshield. She glances into the rearview mirror for a moment as she pulls out, finds Emma’s eyes trained on her and swallows. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish here–” She glances at Neal, fast asleep in the passenger’s seat– “But you’re expendable. Neal’s never dated a girl for longer than a month or two at most. What are you going to do when you two end things?” 

 

Emma leans back against the seat, her eyes hardening in the rearview mirror. “I’m not working on the campaign because I’m dating Neal,” she says, which is such a bold-faced lie that Regina lets out a sharp laugh. “I’m working on it because he thought I’d be good at it. And I am.” She says it with breakable confidence, with the sort that feels like it might shatter if Regina prods it a little.

 

A vindictive part of Regina wants to prod it now, to watch Emma’s carefully constructed confidence fall apart in front of her. She doesn’t, though. Maybe that’s also the gin. And then Emma says, “And you’re wrong about Neal, too.” 

 

“Is this the part where you tell me how he isn’t protecting you by lying to me?” Regina says, curt and unimpressed. 

 

Emma sighs. “He isn’t protecting me,” she echoes. “And he isn’t lying to you, too. He just…doesn’t want to talk about this one thing.” She hesitates, and Regina is reminded again of the unpleasant reality that Emma Swan knows this secret that Regina doesn’t. “You’re really important to him,” she says, almost beseeching. “Even I know that. There’s just this one thing. Can’t you understand that?” 

 

She sounds hopeful, uncertain and soft as they haven’t been before now. Too many barriers have fallen tonight, and Regina knows already that something dangerous lurks beyond the last of them, something that might compromise even more than the campaign.

 

“No,” Regina says flatly, and they drive to Neal’s apartment in silence.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your wonderful feedback!! Your comments and kudos have been making my day omg. I hope you enjoy this one!! <3

******MARCH 30**

_ 73 Days Until the Primary _

 

“Beignets over here!” Sabine calls, wiggling her eyebrows at Emma, and Emma darts a furtive glance at Regina. Regina is distracted across the park, in a heated argument with their treasurer, and Emma snatches up a beignet and bites into it, savoring the taste of the dough. 

 

When she opens her eyes, it’s to Regina’s unsmiling face. “Those are for Storybrooke  _ citizens _ ,” she says, yanking the beignet away from Emma. “You’re a registered voter in Boston, Massachusetts.” 

 

“This is flagrant discrimination,” Emma protests, grabbing it back. “And– How do you  _ know  _ that? Where are you getting your informat–” Regina makes another grab for the beignet, and Emma shoves the whole thing into her mouth, risking Regina’s disgust for the sweet taste of victory and beignet. 

 

It’s worth it, because Regina continues to be an absolute  _ shit _ . She has her brief moments when she seems almost human, like when their barbecue had made it into the Storybrooke traffic and weather report this morning and Regina had spun around with Tamara in joyful celebration; or when she had fallen asleep at work last week, curled in a ball on her chair, looking small and sweet and beautiful in slumber. But those moments are few and far between, and Emma wonders sometimes if all their coworkers had managed to persuade themselves that Regina is someone they like just as a coping mechanism. 

 

Sometimes, she’s pretty sure that this whole campaign and her entire life since she’d moved to Storybrooke have been one long, absurd hallucination. Picking up and moving to Storybrooke on a whim had been par for the course. She’s hated rooting herself down, burrowing into a ground that will someday set her on fire. Wandering the country is the best antidote to that, slipping from city to city and making only rare, ephemeral connections.

 

But cities had always been her dwelling place of choice. In a city, it’s easy to disappear, to take a job and work it until it begins to feel comfortable, to run the moment she begins to feel settled. Cities run on adrenaline, on breathless energy and hope and belief in a world where things can  _ change _ . No one comes to a city looking for permanence.

 

Storybrooke is nothing but permanence. She hadn’t even been able to get a month-to-month lease on an apartment when she’d tried, which is why she’s holing up in Neal’s man cave. She has a job here in which people are counting on her, where she isn’t being paid by the hour and where she’d have to leave a two weeks’ notice if she ever left.

 

Regina is certain that she’ll leave if she breaks up with Neal, and she bites her lip at that, defiant. She isn’t going  _ anywhere _ . She’s put enough work into this campaign that it’s become a tiny bit hers, and she’s going to see it through to the end, no matter how much Regina wants her gone.

 

Maybe it’s sheer stubbornness that keeps her here, still with Neal, still in this place of impossible permanence. Maybe she only wants to prove Regina wrong.  _ So far, so good _ . This barbecue has been her project with Ruby, unconnected to Neal at all. Neal isn’t even  _ here _ . He’d been busy meeting with donors today, and he’d been quick to make excuses to avoid making an appearance.

 

That isn’t about her, and she knows it. Neal and Regina are uncomfortable lately, speaking in terse tones and rarely smiling. Portland hangs over them like a pall on everything they’re working on together, and Neal has reacted by avoiding Regina wherever he can.

 

He wouldn’t have been able to avoid her today, not at a barbecue where their main job is to mingle with whichever potential voters might show up. There are already people drifting to the park, brought in by their names on the radio and by the fliers they’d pinned up on telephone poles and put in the paper. “Aren’t these the beignets from that place with all the cars on the shelves on Main Street?” one of the early visitors ask them, and Regina fixes him with a stern look. He quails, backing away.

 

Emma swallows the last of her beignet. “Rollin’ Bayou, yeah,” she says, grinning. “Have you met its fearless baker? She  _ loves  _ Robin Locksley’s policies and how they’re going to help small businesses in Storybrooke.” She steers him to Sabine. “Why don’t you let her tell you while you enjoy another beignet?” 

 

When he’s gone, she hisses at Regina, who is still glowering, “Cut it out.” 

 

“What?” Regina says, looking offended. 

 

Emma wrinkles her nose at her. “Take a walk. Eat a chocolate.  _ Relax _ . You’re scaring off the voters.” This is her turf today, just as much as it is Regina’s, and she needs this to be successful. “We aren’t going to intimidate anyone into voting for the candidate. I’ve read the handbook and I’m pretty sure that that’s illegal.”

Regina snorts. “You didn’t read the handbook,” she says scathingly. “When’s the last time you read a book?” 

 

Emma scowls. “Okay, the dumb blonde jokes have to stop,” she says. “I get that you think it’s cute or whatever and you hate all of Neal’s girlfriends on principle, but–” 

 

“When’s the last time you read a book?” Regina repeats, tilting her head.

 

Emma glares at her. “I don’t  _ remember _ –” It had been a few years, but she’s been  _ busy _ . Still, Regina is smirking like she’d won the argument, and Emma doesn’t feel very much like feeding her ego anymore. “Just stop turning off voters, okay?”

 

Regina looks at the line of townspeople waiting for beignets, then back at Emma. “I am  _ not _ ,” she says, tossing her hair, and then she stalks over to them to prove her point. “Have you considered voting for Robin Locksley for Storybrooke mayor?” she demands.

 

“Not really,” says a man on line. He’s looking down Regina’s  _ Robin Locksley for Storybrooke mayor! _ tee rather obviously, leering at her as she stares at him, and he says, “I don’t see what’s wrong with the way things are. We don’t need change here. This isn’t some big city with their limited attention spans and sad, bored lives.” He slaps his thigh. “Storybrooke is  _ solid _ .” 

 

“It wasn’t  _ solid _ like this thirty years ago,” Regina shoots back. “There was almost no poverty at all in our town. Now, statistics show–” 

 

“ _ Statistics _ are fancy numbers trying to teach me how to think,” the man says, scowling. “Nonsense masquerading as science. The only numbers I care about are the prices at the pub.” 

 

“You’re an imbecile,” Regina says tightly. “Voters like you are the reason why this town got this way.”

 

Emma grabs her arm. “Whoa, whoa. Let’s not go overboard here–” 

 

“Your mother is the reason this town got this way,” pipes up another voice from beside the man, a woman glaring at Regina. 

 

Regina startles, her eyes darkening. “My mother only  _ managed  _ it because of fools like you, who would rather starve than take a chance on change. None of you have any concept of what the–” 

 

“Okay! Time for a little group huddle!” Emma says, grabbing a beignet and popping it, daringly, into Regina’s mouth before she can alienate anymore future voters. “Nice day, folks! Try to stick around for the barbecue, we have Robin Locksley as our special guest speaker once everyone’s settled in!” 

 

Her fingers are still around the beignet, parting Regina’s lips, and Emma has a single instant for her legs to turn to jelly at that realization before Regina snaps once at Emma’s fingers with her teeth. “ _ Hey _ !” 

 

“What the hell are you trying to accomplish?” Regina demands, chewing furiously at the beignet. Emma puts a finger in her mouth to suck it, injured. It tastes like sugar and Regina’s lipstick, and she pulls it out quickly, feeling suddenly hot. “I was in the middle of a debate!” 

 

“Robin’s supposed to debate the opponent! You’re not supposed to fight our prospective voters!” Emma says, righteously irritated. “Sorry for bailing you out of this one. Next time I’ll let you stick your foot in your mouth another dozen times.” 

 

Regina scoffs. “You’re  _ wrong _ ,” she says. “I know what people like that respond to, and it isn’t sweet little treats and inspirational speeches. They want facts, and they want–” 

 

“They don’t want to be called an imbecile for disagreeing with you,” Emma says reasonably. “Come  _ on _ , Regina. You’re the trained politician here, not me. I shouldn’t have to tell you not to be so abrasive.” 

 

“I am  _ not _ abrasive,” Regina snaps, letting out a huff and turning to walk away. She’s made it about two steps when something tiny and loud hurtles into her, nearly bowling her over.

 

On closer examination, it’s a little boy, not older than three or four, shrieking, “Beignets! Beignets!” as he wraps his arms around her. “Did you see, there are  _ beignets _ !”

 

Regina’s whole face shifts in an instant, like magic. She’s scooping up the boy, the sharp lines of her expression softening and her eyes glittering with affection like Emma’s never seen them before. “There you are!” she exclaims, and the boy giggles and wraps his arms around her neck. “How many beignets have you had already?” She fixes him with a mock-stern look, the sort that looks as though she’s never been stern for a day in her life.

 

“Just one!” the boy says, blinking innocently at her. Regina raises an eyebrow, and the boy says sulkily, “Three.” Regina waits. “Maybe it was four,” the boy admits. “Sabine  _ lets _ .” 

 

“Sabine isn’t the one who’s going to have to clean up your vomit later,” Regina says reprovingly, settling the boy against her side and brushing a kiss to his cheek. “How about we go get some corn?” 

 

Emma is still gaping at them, at this soft Regina who holds a toddler as though she’s made for it, and Regina notices at last. She cocks her head at Emma, eyebrows raised, and Emma blurts out, “Do you have a  _ son _ ?” 

 

Regina lets out a sputtering laugh, choked and uncomfortable, and Emma says quickly, “I’m not judging! It’s cool if you’re a single mom– I mean, I know Storybrooke can be judgy, but I would have killed for a single mom– well, any kind of mom, really–” She’s stumbling over her own words, stopped short by this Regina who seems to glow, her smile bright and years younger, her face shining. Regina has always been sexy in a kind of dangerous, intoxicating way. Regina with a child in her arms is instead stunning, a vision in gentle beauty, and Emma swallows, overwhelmed.

 

“Tía Gina, who is she?” the boy inquires, a barely audible whisper in Regina’s ear.  _ Oh _ . Not Regina’s kid, then. He’s wearing a miniature version of the  _ Robin Locksley for Storybrooke mayor!  _ tee, and he does look vaguely familiar, like Emma had seen his picture on someone’s desk. 

 

“She’s helping your papa become mayor,” Regina says to the boy, and Emma remembers.  _ Right _ . Roland Locksley, who features in several of the palm cards they’re handing out today. He’s got a cherubic face that would win over even the most dubious of voters, and Regina shines around him like she isn’t the stick-up-her-ass workaholic that she is deep down. “Though not as much as you’re going to, right?” She tousles his hair. “Show her your best, Roland.” 

 

Roland scrunches up his face and then pouts at Emma, thrusting out his lower lip and letting it tremble. “Don’t you want my papa to fix Storybrooke?” he says, his eyes round and solemn, and Emma is pretty sure that she’d jump off a cliff for that face. 

 

“You,” she says, tapping Roland’s lip and bending so they’re eye-to-eye, “Are our secret weapon.” Roland beams at her, and Regina almost smiles, dropping her face so she’s looking at Roland instead of Emma. 

 

She’s… _ god _ , Regina has always had a distant sort of air around her, superior and fully aware of it and untouchable. Regina had been the  _ last  _ person in the office whom she might have expected to be good with children, but Roland is bouncing in Regina’s arms, giggling at what she whispers in his ear. With Roland, Regina feels more grounded, more  _ real _ , and Emma is staring at her for far too long, struck by her.  “What?” Regina finally demands, but even her voice lacks its customary sharpness. 

 

“Stay with Roland today,” Emma says. “Bring him everywhere you go.” Regina’s brow furrows, and Emma feels obligated to be brutally honest, “You know, if you don’t want to screw up the campaign with your people skills.” 

 

Regina stares at her, and  _ yep _ , she hates Emma just enough that she can’t completely withhold her muted glare. “You’re insufferable,” she says, and Roland giggles again, tracing her lips with a chubby little finger as she says the word.

 

It’s immensely difficult to take Regina seriously like this. “Yeah, and you’re a literal demon from hell,” Emma says with absolute honesty. “We all have our character flaws.” Regina’s eyebrow shoots up, a thumb absently stroking Roland’s cheek, and Emma blurts out, “But you’re kind of cute with the kid.” 

 

She regrets it the moment she says it– why the  _ fuck _ had she even said it– and regrets it even more when Regina’s head jerks up, eyes wide and lips parted, and she gapes at Emma for a protracted moment. She’s flushing, startled and taken off guard, and if Emma weren’t bright pink herself, she might have enjoyed it. 

 

Instead, she stumbles over her own words. “I mean,  _ he’s _ cute. And you’re a little less vile around him.” 

 

“Right,” Regina says, sounding very flustered. “Right, of course. He’s a darling boy.” 

 

“Darling,” Emma agrees quickly, then sputters, “Him, not you, I mean– not that I was ever implying that  _ you  _ were darling, I  _ hate  _ you–” 

 

Regina regains her composure first, setting Roland down and straightening. He immediately wraps his arms around her legs, happily playing with the hem of her skirt as Regina says sleekly, “You’re a third-rate incompetent who only managed to put together a passable event today because it involved your one true love, artery-clogging foods. I hardly care whether you find me  _ darling  _ or  _ demon spawn _ ,” she says, her lip curling as she turns on her heel. Emma stares dumbly at her. 

 

“Don’t you have anything better to do than trail behind me like a lost puppy?” Regina tosses over her shoulder.  _ Typical Regina _ , getting nasty the moment Emma gets to her, unless she’d been somehow offended by Emma calling her demon spawn? Not that it wasn’t well-deserved, but–

 

Emma stares after Regina, stymied at what might have been a fight and might have been a friendly conversation.  _ Who the fuck knows. _ But Regina lifts Roland and keeps her distance from new arrivals, chatting instead with the well-dressed residents who wander to her. She keeps Roland in her arms the entire time, Emma notes smugly, passing out new palm cards with Ruby.

 

They have dozens of families at the barbecue by the time the grills have run their course, and Marian moves from table to table, sitting with townspeople and chatting easily with them. Robin is at one of the middle tables, speaking earnestly with a couple whom Emma recognizes from one of the little knick-knack shops on Main Street. “Ah, no, the superstore won’t take away your jobs,” he’s assuring them. “If we staff and stock it, it will bring in people from all over midstate Maine.” 

 

“To shop there,” the wife says, frowning. “Along with everyone else. This superstore is going to steal our business and shut us down.” 

 

Robin looks a little bewildered, a little lost. Marian and Mulan are engrossed in conversation with a crowd at one table, too busy to be pulled away. Emma blinks around the park frantically, searching for someone–  _ anyone _ – who might be able to retain the two votes Robin’s about to lose.

 

Her eyes land on Regina, who is back to sulking in the corner. Roland has departed from her side to eat a hot dog on his mother’s lap, and Regina’s glare is as terrifying as ever without him. Emma makes her way to her gingerly, lowering her voice. “The candidate needs your help.” 

 

“I thought I was too abrasive for that,” Regina says, scowling at her, and Emma sighs. 

 

“Regina,” she says, and Regina stops arguing, her jaw working beneath her skin as she straightens and starts toward Robin’s table. “Just be gentle, okay?” 

 

“I don’t know  _ how _ to be gentle with idiots,” Regina mutters, and Emma almost laughs. She’s noticed, judging from exactly how much of an idiot Regina seems to think that Emma is. Regina being useless at dealing with people who aren’t on her wavelength is a given. Regina  _ knowing  _ it is somehow…delightful to contemplate.

 

But Regina sweeps over to the table, where Robin is stammering over their plans for family outings, and says smoothly. “Oh, the Collodis! You have the most beautiful broach on display in your window.” She shoots a smug look at Emma, a  _ see? I can be nice _ that has Emma arching a brow back at her. “So you have some questions about the superstore proposal. Let me explain to you our tax reduction plans.” 

 

Robin beams. “Regina’s the brains of the operation,” he says, winking, and he lays an arm around Regina’s shoulders. “I’m just the charming smile.” The wife giggles at that. Regina leans forward, eye-to-eye with the husband, and Emma drifts away, relieved. 

 

That’s her job today: putting out fires as they flare up. This is their first real  _ event _ , earlier than Regina had budgeted it, but they haven’t been picking up much publicity until now. But if the media isn’t going to bring them attention, they’ll find other ways. Ruby is already talking about a back-to-school giveaway after the primaries.

 

Assuming they  _ win  _ the primary. Emma wanders through the tables, pausing when she hears the tail end of a conversation. “–voting for Mary Margaret, though,” one of the townspeople is saying, and Emma leans back against a tree, eavesdropping as inconspicuously as she can. 

 

“Oh, certainly,” her friend agrees. “Mary Margaret is a part of this town, you know? I think she taught all three of my daughters. She’d be such a lovely mayor.” Emma recognizes her. She’d been one of the women who’d signed their petition in the first place, warbling on and on about how glad she was to support  _ Cora Mills _ . The traitor. “This Locksley fellow…he’s very handsome, but–” 

 

“You think so?” The other woman wrinkles her nose. “He’s no Killian Jones.” They both sigh dreamily, and Emma has to pull out her phone to hide her expression from anyone who might glance back and see her. “And that wife of his…she seems a little…” 

 

Their critical gazes land on Marian, who is bouncing the littlest Locksley on her lap as she chats with a table of far less well-dressed townspeople. “ _ Trashy _ ,” the woman pronounces, twisting her lips in distaste. Emma’s hand tightens on her phone. “Not the kind of people I want in Town Hall.” 

 

“But they make a mean barbecue,” someone else at the table interjects, and the conversation shifts to the food before Emma can step in and break her own rule. She glowers at the blank screen of her phone, her knuckles white from the strain as she clutches onto it.

 

“Ignore them,” advises a voice behind her. “They mean well, but they’re never going to see eye-to-eye with you.” Emma turns. It’s Mary Margaret Blanchard herself, a pretty little woman with a clipboard marked  _ AURORA ROSE _ tucked in beside her. “I wanted to see how you were doing here,” she says brightly. “I heard you made it onto the ballot.” 

 

Emma smiles, a little uncertain, and Mary Margaret adds wryly, “Even without my signature.”

 

“Sorry about that,” Emma ventures, cautious. She doesn’t want to overstep, to cross a line that she’s already crossed once before. Mary Margaret seems nice enough, supportive of their campaign while maintaining her own. “I guess you probably know Regina, huh?”

 

Mary Margaret exhales a little sigh, then smiles again, strained. “I’ve taught every adult under thirty in this town,” she says. “How could I not know Regina? She was probably my favorite student.” 

 

Emma looks at her in surprise. She can’t imagine Regina being anyone’s favorite  _ anything _ , let alone Mary Margaret’s. Their sole interaction that Emma had witnessed had been tense at best. “You  _ like _ Regina?” 

 

Mary Margaret laughs, stepping away from her companion and shifting toward Emma. “She can be a handful, huh? I wouldn’t have minded having her on my campaign team, though. I called her to ask her to manage mine and she hung up on me.” 

 

Regina hasn’t noticed her yet. She’s still talking to the candidate’s table, all of them riveted by what she’s saying, and she hasn’t looked up or spotted Mary Margaret at all. Mary Margaret watches her, wistful. “She’s doing a good job. And she’s gathered quite a team.” Mary Margaret turns to smile at Emma. “This event is your brainchild, isn’t it? And I’ve heard a bit about you from my own team. A stranger, new at campaigning, and one of Regina’s best.” 

 

Emma blinks at her, gratified. Neal is insistent that she’s doing a good job. The others have seemed to appreciate her work, too. But it feels like an uphill battle sometimes, struggling to gain approval from the people she feels most like she has something to prove to. Mary Margaret is their  _ opponent _ and she thinks…

 

_ What’s her angle _ , she wonders suddenly. She has spent far too many years of her life with people with angles, people who dole out praise to manipulate or get what they want. She knows better than to take this kind of praise without a grain of salt, and she eyes Mary Margaret with misgiving. 

 

Mary Margaret doesn’t notice. She’s still watching the candidate’s table, Robin flashing that toothy smile and Regina gesturing animatedly and looking so  _ alive _ and unguarded and breathtaking, and she clears her throat and says, “Did you know that every single Storybrooke mayor before now has been a man?” 

 

Emma blinks, tearing her eyes away from Regina’s profile. “That doesn’t surprise me,” she says. “This place is kind of…” She hesitates, unwilling to insult the town in front of the opponent. “I’m used to big cities, I guess.” 

 

Mary Margaret stares out at the tables, at the people gathered at them. “I don’t think I have much of a chance against Killian Jones,” she admits. “People like me, but I’m no superstar. But I thought…you know, if I had the chance to put a woman candidate out there, how could I not? Isn’t it time for a change?” Emma bites her lip, glancing over at the candidate. He’s regaling his table with a story, personable and cheerful and so very, very lacking anything special. 

 

She’s wondered before how it is that Robin had been Regina’s choice for candidate, and she’d concluded that it’s in how the women in his life orbit him, outshine him, and he smiles and accepts that peacefully. It’s no coincidence that so many women work on the campaign team, that so many people who  _ care  _ would put in the work to make someone like him mayor. Still, though, Mary Margaret makes a compelling point.

 

“I think there are a lot of changes to be made,” Emma says finally. “A woman in charge won’t change the ways that Storybrooke is broken. And my team has some plans to change that.” She glances over at Marian, who has moved tables to speak with the group who had been sneering at her before. She’s standing instead of taking a seat, Roland getting antsy as he hangs onto her hand. Her clothes are just as stylish and expensive as theirs under her  _ Robin Locksley for Storybrooke mayor! _ tee, her hair perfectly coiffed, but there is something about the way that she holds herself separate. She’s guarded, standing with them as though she doesn’t belong, one brown-skinned woman in a sea of white, and there is tension in her shoulders. Roland drifts away, sulky at the company, and wanders in Regina’s direction.

 

Mary Margaret says, “I would love to hear them. I think we can all make changes together.” 

 

“Is that why you’re here?” Emma asks, turning back to her for a moment. When she glances back, she doesn’t see Roland anymore. Instead, Regina has caught sight of them, and she’s striding toward Mary Margaret, her eyes burning with anger.

 

Mary Margaret says, “I didn’t come here as your opponent. I came here as a member of the community.” She sounds defensive, suddenly, as though Emma’s caught her out on something that Emma herself can’t figure out. “This barbecue was marketed for–” 

 

“You need to leave,” Emma says tightly, cutting her off. Regina practically has smoke coming out of her ears as she approaches, and Emma looks around desperately for Roland, to grab the only one who might be able to avert Regina’s anger for long enough that it cools. “ _ Go _ ,” she snaps, eyes fixed on Regina.

 

The woman with the clipboard takes Mary Margaret’s arm. “Maybe it’s best that we leave,” she says delicately, but Mary Margaret straightens, looks ready for a confrontation–  _ where is Roland _ – as Regina nears, her lips moving in wordless fury.

 

“Mary Margaret Blanchard,” Regina grits out, her eyes narrowed. “Are you  _ poaching my staff _ ?”

 

Emma takes a startled moment to be pleased at the  _ my staff _ , and another moment to look at Mary Margaret, who is red-faced and defiant, before she gathers her thoughts and expresses the most vital question of the moment. “Where’s Roland?” she blurts out, and Regina and Mary Margaret both turn to stare at her. She gestures at the tables, where most of the people present have been distracted at the possibility of a brawl. “He was there a minute ago. Where did he go?” 

 

Marian crosses the space from the table toward them, her brow furrowing as she looks around. “Roland?” Robin calls out. Sabine emerges from behind her table, and Ruby jogs over to them, frowning. 

 

It’s dusk now, the sky beginning to dim, and Roland isn’t anywhere in the park. “I’ll check the walk,” Sabine suggests. “Roland?” she calls again, crossing through the park. “Roland, where are you?” 

 

Emma feels a prickle of fear. The park is big, circling a pond that Roland couldn’t have possibly made it to. There are enough kids gathered near the water that they would have seen him, which leaves two options. The first is the street, the small parking lot beside the park already illuminated by the flashlight on Sabine’s phone. The second is the woods, just beyond the edge of the park.

 

Robin is already heading toward the woods. “I’m a skilled outdoorsman,” he assures them, his features wan and tense. “Regina, with me. We’ll go this way.” 

 

“We’ll take this one,” Marian says, moving past Emma toward the woods. She doesn’t glance back, and Mary Margaret and Emma exchange helpless looks and start after her. “Emma,” Marian clarifies, and she gives Mary Margaret a look so quelling that Mary Margaret retreats. “He was with me a  _ minute  _ ago,” Marian says, her hands balling up into fists as Emma keeps up with her, shining her phone flashlight into the dark. “A minute!” 

 

She’s breathing hard, angry and afraid in a way that Emma hasn’t seen her before. Marian always seems so composed when she’s with the campaign, confident and friendly and personable enough to even befriend Regina. Now, she’s hard and focused, slipping through brambles and swinging her phone around to see. “Roland!” she calls again.

 

“He couldn’t have gone far,” Emma says, squinting into the dim woods. “He’s just a kid. And Storybrooke is pretty safe.” The woods aren’t too big, certainly not deep enough to lose someone for long, and Roland is little enough that he’d run out of energy quickly and crash. There are no wolves around here, according to Neal, and bears are rare and fairly uninterested in people. 

 

Marian nods tightly, and then says, abrupt, “What was Mary Margaret Blanchard saying to you?” 

 

It’s almost accusing, and Emma is taken aback. “Nothing really,” she says. “She seemed interested in collaborating with us, regardless of who wins the primary.”

 

“She’s a snake,” Marian says darkly. Emma looks at her askance. Yeah, Regina hasn’t hidden her dislike of their opponent, but she’d thought that had been just Regina being…well, Regina. Marian doesn’t strike her as someone who would hate a woman senselessly.

 

“She seemed…she seemed pretty genuine to me,” Emma says cautiously. She’s the last person to trust without reason, but she’s also pretty good at figuring out when someone is lying. Mary Margaret had been sincere, if a bit restrained. 

 

“Oh, she’s genuine,” Marian says, and it’s bitter, a hard touch of anger in her voice as she shines the flashlight ahead of them. “She still can’t be trusted. Be careful around her, Emma. We can’t–” She stops, lifting her phone to the trees, and calls out, “Roland?” 

 

A tiny, whimpering voice responds, somewhere high above them.

 

* * *

 

Robin  _ is  _ an outdoorsman, as utterly exhausting as that descriptor is, and he moves through the woods like he’d grown up in them. Regina remembers meeting him for the first time at a wedding she hadn’t wanted to attend, for a girl down the block whom Mother had mentioned, from time to time,  _ really didn’t belong, did she _ ? Mother had discouraged any friendship she might have had with Marian, wary of Regina being lumped with her somehow. Regina had kept her distance from Marian, uncomfortable with her even when Zelena had spent her summers home with her and gone to school with Marian abroad. She’d gone to the wedding with the same discomfort, and had whispered in Zelena’s ear when they’d met the groom,  _ he smells like forest. _

 

Not like these woods, though, and Regina stays far enough apart from Robin that she can’t smell his terrible cologne, or deodorant, or  _ whatever  _ that odor is. She keeps her eyes fixed on the trees, searching for Roland with her heart pounding. “We’ll find him,” she says, more for herself than for Robin. He’s so small, and all she can think about is every ravine, every thornbush, every bear out there who might take an interest in a scared little boy. 

 

“We will,” Robin agrees, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. Regina’s skin prickles and she starts ahead of him, pulling away from his touch. “Search the trees,” Robin says, pulling ahead again. He sweeps his phone flashlight around in a tight circle, looking up. “He loves climbing trees.”

 

“I know,” Regina says, and she can hear the wetness in her voice, the strain and the fear building up. “I was so distracted by Blanchard that I didn’t think to check on him–” 

 

“You were doing your job,” Robin says, and he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds reasonable and sympathetic, and Regina swallows and meets his gaze. “You’ve been running an astounding campaign. The petitions, the fundraising, this barbecue…” He smiles warmly at her. “I never thought we’d make it this far.” 

 

“We’ll make it further,” Regina promises him, taking a breath. “To Town Hall.” 

 

“I don’t doubt it,” Robin agrees. “Between you and your team– Neal, Mulan, Sabine…” He tilts his head, a little mischievous. “And Emma Swan was quite the hire, wasn’t she?” 

 

Regina scoffs automatically. Robin quirks an eyebrow, and Regina is suddenly reminded of a flustered Emma calling her  _ cute  _ earlier today. She swallows, her mouth dry, and says, “Debatable.” 

 

Robin laughs easily, patting her back. “Despite that, you two make a formidable team.” He perks up, glancing past her into the woods. “Did you hear that?” 

 

“Hear what?” Regina asks, but Robin is already charging through the woods, north from where they’d been going. 

 

“Roland!” he shouts, and Regina takes off after him, her heels tangling in the underbrush and sinking into the ground as she runs. “Roland, I’m here! I’m–!” He skids to a halt and Regina nearly crashes into him. 

 

Roland  _ is _ there, perched high on a tree and peeking through the branches with a look of terror on his face. Marian is at the base of the tree, her eyes fixed on Roland, and there’s a flash of blonde hair high above them, Emma’s arms around Roland as she eases back down the tree. “You found him,” Regina breathes. 

 

Marian’s eyes stay glued on the tree as she nods. “Emma, be careful,” she calls up, pressing a hand to the trunk of the tree. “You’re slipping–” 

 

“I got it!” Emma calls down. She’s easing down the tree, her arm tight around Roland as she reaches the base of the branches and the top of the trunk. She slips a little and Regina’s heart skips a beat before Emma finds a little knot on the tree to lean on. “Okay,” she admits. “I could use a little… _ guidance _ , maybe–” 

 

Regina clears her throat. “Emma,” she says, keeping her voice calm as Emma jerks in surprise, staring down at her and nearly slipping in the process. “ _ Stop _ ,” Regina says, fear jolting within her. Roland is tight against Emma, peeking out over her shoulder to stare down at them. “Follow my directions, carefully.” She circles the tree, finding another knot just below Emma.

 

“How do I know you’re not going to send me crashing to my death?” Emma says, laughing shakily. “This is, like, your dream come true.” 

 

Aside from the absolute  _ idiocy  _ of that– and Emma has Roland in her arms, too, so Regina  _ wouldn’t _ – Emma is standing at the very top, still, waiting obediently for instructions. Regina ignores her crack and says, “Move your foot a little to the left, about five inches down.” Emma finds the knot. “Good. There’s another one on your right, a bit of a drop, so shift Roland to the left if you can.” 

 

Slowly, gradually, Regina guides Emma down the tree, Marian and Robin standing together behind her in gripped silence. There are no more cracks, no snide remarks, just Regina steering Emma to every imperfection on the tree trunk that might get her down to safety. “You’re almost there,” Regina says, keeping her voice as calm as possible. “There’s a knot in the tree just below you–” 

 

Emma yelps and Regina sucks in a terrified breath. “What is it? What–” 

 

“Sorry.” Emma sounds sheepish. “Sorry. Just a really  _ fu _ – freaking big spider. I’m fine.” She finds the knot and twists, her fingers digging into the side of the trunk. “Kid, you think you can go to your dad?” Robin moves forward, stretching up to Emma until Roland clambers down Emma and into his father’s arms, and Emma slides her arms around the trunk and leans her head against it. She’s close enough now that Regina can see the beads of sweat on her forehead, the way her body moves with every breath she takes. “Don’t ditch me now, Mills,” Emma says, her fingers scrabbling against bark. “A few more steps, right?” 

 

“To your left,” Regina says, and Emma overestimates the space, reaches too far and slips. Instinctively, Regina shifts forward as Emma tumbles down, reaching out to catch the woman, and Emma scrapes her arm against the tree, loses her grip again, and manages to slow her fall so she drops to the ground in front of Regina.

 

Regina’s arms are still outstretched on either side of Emma, and Emma twists around, rubbing at her raw arm as she stares at Regina. She’s very, very close, and Regina swallows, her mouth dry. Emma is still flushed and shiny with perspiration, her hair tangled and flat against her cheeks, but her eyes are glowing with triumph. Regina has told herself a dozen times that Emma is just…generic pretty, attractive but unremarkable, and she doesn’t know how it is that she can be so striking regardless when she’s ragged and worn.

 

“Thanks for that,” Emma murmurs, just a rumble in her throat that even the Locksleys don’t hear. She licks her lips, eyes fixed on Regina with an exhilaration that is almost  _ hungry _ , and Regina can feel it like a bolt of energy up her spine.

 

_ Fuck _ , she really  _ hates  _ Emma Swan. She twists away, refusing to respond as the breath whooshes out of her, and instead hurries to Marian and Roland. Roland crows, “Tía Gina!” and he leaps into Regina’s arms from Marian’s, Marian slipping an arm around Regina to press a kiss to Roland’s temple as Regina scolds him for running off and checks him for cuts or bruises or ticks.

 

She glances back once, unable to help herself, and sees Emma still leaning against the tree, watching them with naked wistfulness on her face. Her eyes catch onto Regina’s– they always do, somehow, Regina is always too aware of Emma Swan’s presence– and they hold for a moment, Regina in her circle of family and Emma removed from it.

 

Emma gives her a tiny smile, enough that something loops into a knot in Regina’s stomach, and Regina stiffens. Her lips tighten into a thin line, and Emma stops smiling. She rolls her eyes irritably, rubs her arm where she’d scraped it and retreats back into the forest, toward where the path leads to the park.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all are so wonderful to me ty for all the feedback!! <3 I hope you enjoy this one!!

**APRIL 4**

_68 Days Until the Primary_

 

“So it’s been a week and _nothing_ ! Even Sidney hasn’t put out anything because he says that _the newspaper is going to fade into irrelevance if they’re the only ones covering our campaign_ ,” Regina quotes bitterly into the phone as she strides down Mifflin Street. “We ran a great barbecue, got a few new sponsors, and Emma even rescued a kid from a tree. And we can’t break into the media at _all_ .”   
  
“That is strange,” Daddy agrees from the other line, his voice tinny through the distance. “But more funding means you can pay for your own media.”

 

Regina grins. _That_ , at least, had been the one saving grace of this frustrating week post-event. They’re drumming up some interest despite the number of unreturned calls Sabine has left with the media this past week. “Emma has this idea– _oh,_ Emma is this absolutely awful girl that Neal is dating, have I mentioned her yet–”

 

“Multiple times,” Daddy says, sounding very amused, and Regina bites her lip and scowls at that. “In great detail. So Emma has an idea?”

 

“It’s idiotic,” Regina feels obligated to disclaimer. “But if we don’t compromise our entire operation and make ourselves look like fools, we’ll be making our own media successfully.” She pauses, spotting two figures idling down the block, in front of her childhood home. “Why is _she_ here?” she says aloud.

 

“She?”

 

Regina’s eyes narrow. “Emma Swan,” she says into the phone. Neal is leaning against a telephone pole, his usually-rumpled shirt exchanged for a sweater that is equally, defiantly rumpled. Emma is wearing a dress shirt blue enough that it must bring out her eyes. It looks suspiciously like the one that Regina had left hanging in the campaign office for emergencies. “Mother wouldn’t have invited _her_ to family dinner, would she?”

 

 _Family dinner_. She hadn’t been expecting the summons when it had come this morning, and Mother had been unimpressed by her insistence that she has work to do. Neal had gotten a similar summons, had exchanged a weary glance with her from across the room that had been the least tense interaction they’d had in weeks. That might be the worst part of this, going into her mother’s house without even an ally at her side.

 

 _No_ , the worst part of this is that Neal has brought Emma, and she isn’t talking to Neal but she’d rather never speak to Emma at all. “I just really wish you were here,” she says into the phone, wistful.

 

“I’m a phone call away, _mijita_ ,” Daddy murmurs. “I will try to get back to Storybrooke as soon as I can.”

 

She feels foolish as soon as he makes the promise. “You don’t have to,” she says quickly. “I have everything under control. Mother is just…a lot to deal with right now, you know.” She straightens, smoothing down her dress and primping her hair. “I’ll call you later, Daddy. I love you.”

 

She’s hanging up by the time she reaches Neal and Emma. Emma is gaping up at the house as though she’s never seen anything like it. Maybe she hasn’t. Mother’s house is the largest in town, sprawling grounds and towering building alike. She’s made sure of it over the years with careful zoning laws, too. “Holy hell, Regina, did you grow up in a _castle_?” Emma sputters.

 

“Their carriage house is bigger than our entire apartment building,” Neal mutters, falling in line beside Regina. “They have their own stables in the back. My dad was always obscenely wealthy, but he never liked showing it as much as Cora Mills does.”

 

“The perception of wealth is more powerful than wealth itself,” Regina quotes dryly. “Mother wanted to be feared and respected more than she ever wanted money. Why did you bring your arm candy to dinner?”

 

“Papa asked to meet her,” Neal says as Emma mutters something low and nasty under her breath. Regina smirks to herself. “And she isn’t _arm candy_. She’s going to save this election for us. You okayed her plan.”

 

“I haven’t okayed it yet.” It’s a ridiculous plan, meant to bring in gawkers more than make any concerted effort to publicize their policy. But it _might_ work, and that’s enough to make Regina a reluctant supporter. Maybe.

 

Neal gives her a knowing look, and for a moment, Regina can forget that he’s hiding something potentially tumultuous from her. “You will.” He slides an arm around her and squeezes lightly, quiet acknowledgement that they’re on the same page here. Emma, behind them, is still silent.

 

She is even quieter when Mother opens the door, reaching out with air kisses for Regina followed by, “Oh, darling, couldn’t you wear something a bit more slimming?” as she guides Regina inside. “And those bags under your eyes.” She sighs heavily. “Those can become permanent fixtures if you aren’t careful. Hello, Neal,” she adds, as though she’s just spotted him.

 

Her eyes flicker to Emma, who is standing very straight, her hair falling over her shoulder and that blue shirt in fact making her eyes bright like glowing sapphires. “Tina, wasn’t it?” she says, tilting her head with distaste.

 

“Emma,” Emma corrects her. She doesn’t like Mother. Regina can tell from the tight line of her jaw, the way her eyes blaze when she speaks as though she’s restraining herself from lashing out. “I’m dating Neal.”

 

“Well, it’s nice that he brings…someone…home,” Mother says, wrinkling her nose as she looks away from Emma. Emma opens her mouth, defiant, and Regina seizes her wrist warningly, shaking her head. The last thing they need is for Emma to trigger Mother’s wrath. Emma grits her teeth, her skin warm against Regina’s touch. Mother doesn’t notice either of them. “Wait in the living room. Try not to break anything,” she says, eyeing Emma. “This is priceless art.”

 

She waves to the displays in the living room, the stylized Lenca pottery on the wall that accentuates the browns of the walls and fireplace. Mother likes to call it _celebrating your father’s heritage_ , as though Daddy has any connection to Lenca art. This is Mother’s way; she’d hidden pieces of Regina away for years, had frowned at her like she’d been a failure when she’d been browned in the summertime sun and had pushed for her to study French in school instead of Spanish. But she parades Regina like an exotic piece of art when it suits her, talks about Regina’s _heritage_ as though it is something to be weaponized as well for her success.

 

Everything is something to be weaponized with Mother, and Regina traces her fingers around a shallow Lenca bowl in quiet defiance as Emma leans against the wall beside her. “Your mom…she’s a piece of work, huh? I see where you get it from.”

 

Regina ignores her. There’s a smell wafting about her, though it’s too subtle to be perfume. Shampoo, maybe, fresh and a little like coconut. Emma has mastered a kind of femininity that feels solid, strong where some women might fall to fragility instead, and Regina might have envied her for it if she had been a weaker woman. Instead, she despises her for reasons far beyond that.

 

“The queen bitch,” Neal says, grinning at Regina and Emma conspiratorially. “Not that my father is much better.”

 

Emma raises an eyebrow. “Your dad is the queen bitch?”

 

“He wishes,” Regina mutters, and she earns a startled, strangled laugh from Emma at that. It’s hard not to feel pleased at that, which is irritating in its own way, and Regina is relieved when they’re ushered into the dining room by one of Mother’s newest maids.

 

Mother is already seated, but Gold enters the room after them. Regina has always just called him _Gold_ , just like Neal has always called Mother _Mrs. Mills_ . He’s always been a presence in her life, a wild card whom she’s never been able to figure out. Sometimes he’s on her side; sometimes he’s out to fuck her over. He calls it _taking a fatherly interest in you and Zelena_ , while Mother has never done the same with Neal.

 

But then, Neal has nothing that Mother cares to benefit from, not beyond needling Regina. “You know, Regina, we’re all paired up at this table except you,” Mother says with a deep sigh. “How awkward.”

 

Regina smiles thinly. “I don’t think you’d have it any other way.” Mother maintains a studied ignorance about the parts of Regina that she hates most, and Regina plays along when she’s feeling polite.

 

When she isn’t polite, she is out the door in minutes, flushed and close to tears and Mother’s words still raking claws into her skin. She won’t do that now, in front of Emma Swan, whose eyes flicker to her, inscrutable, every few moments.

 

Mother says, “Maybe I’ll invite Killian next time. Give you a little company,” she suggests as Regina chokes on her salmon. “He’s quite charming.” She gives Gold a sly look. Gold purses his lips around his fork. Mother plays games within games within games, and Regina can only track the ones she plays with her daughters. “And quite cultured, too. Did you see the feature that the local news station did on him last Sunday?”

 

“No,” Regina says flatly.

 

Neal says, loyal even when they’re at odds, “I saw Emma knock him down after he hit on her at a bar.” He smiles easily, grinning at his father, whose lips have curved into a smile at that.

 

“Did she?” Mother sounds uninterested, enough so that she must already know. She shifts to eye Emma, her lips curling. “Where did you two say you met, again? Portland?”

 

The reaction from both Neal and Emma is instantaneous. They stiffen, hands squeezing on their silverware, and their eyes are wide and afraid at once. “Tallahassee,” Emma corrects Mother, but her grip is white-knuckled, her shoulders a perfect line of fear. Regina watches them, eyes narrowed, and makes a mental note to search for Emma’s history in Portland. “We met in Tallahassee.”

 

“How droll,” Mother remarks. She smiles, very much in control of the room. “And you’re on the children’s pet project, now, too, aren’t you?” She laughs, musical and mocking. “Well, I suppose Regina has to take whatever support she can find.”

 

Regina presses the toes of her shoes against the legs of her chair, hard enough to hurt. “We’ve been doing pretty well, actually,” she says. “We had a barbecue last week that brought in a good third of the town.”

 

Mother’s eyebrows raise. “Really,” she says. “I hadn’t heard.” Which is a _lie_ , first and foremost, because there’s nothing that happens in Storybrooke that Mother _hasn’t_ heard about. Like this, though, with the backdrop of media silence that surrounds their campaign, it sounds like a taunt. “Though I suppose that that’s a blessing. The quieter this little rebellion is, the better.”

 

Regina looks at Mother askance. _Of course_ , and she doesn’t know why she hadn’t thought this through before. _Of course_ , Mother is the one suppressing news about their campaign. “Pardon?” she says, wiping her lips with her napkin and settling it onto her lap.

 

“Oh, darling,” Mother sighs expansively. “We’ve talked about this before. Any publicized campaign such as yours will only reflect poorly on you. If you’re going to run for governor before your thirty-sixth birthday, you can’t have nonsense campaigns like this one in your public record. I hope you’ll keep that in mind.”

 

Neal bites his lip, focusing on his dinner roll instead of Mother. Emma, however, is staring at Mother with dawning horror, her eyes flashing with outrage. “You’re the reason why we can’t get into the news, aren’t you? Are you sabotaging us?”

 

Mother places a hand on her chest, delicate. “Neal, this ruffian you’ve brought into my house is upsetting me,” she says, not sounding upset in the least. “All these accusations…” She shakes her head pityingly. “Is this really the sort of girl you want on _outreach_ , Regina?”

 

Regina doesn’t want Emma there at _all_ , actually, which Mother probably knows as well. “I would really like the main course,” she says rigidly.

 

Mother says, “Of course you would,” eyeing her waistline.

 

And that’s about how it goes.

 

* * *

 

The most baffling part about Cora Mills is what she does to Regina. Regina is a– no, _the_ Head Bitch In Charge, as far as Emma is concerned. She has that terrifying-attractive blend going for her, the kind where Emma spends most of her time with her eyes glued to Regina, half in awe, half infuriated, and she’s the ultimate at it.

 

Or so Emma had thought until Cora Mills had opened the front door of her palatial mansion and looked Emma up and down with deep disgust. Cora is another breed altogether, beyond even Regina, and Regina is quiet in her presence. She speaks when spoken to, skirts any possibility of conflict, and doubles down only in brief, intoxicatingly sharp moments of defiance.

 

Cora Mills, Emma thinks, kind of explains Regina Mills.

 

In direct contrast is Neal’s father, about whom Neal has ranted too many times for Emma to dismiss altogether. Gold sits in silence most of the time, content as he watches the tense interplay at the table, and he seems more the long-suffering husband than any kind of power-hungry mastermind. Still, Emma keeps a wary eye on him, affixing a smile to her face that she hopes might make her seem…at least likable.

 

She hadn’t planned to crash a family dinner, hadn’t wanted to be there at all, but Neal had hung up the phone at lunch and said, “He’s pretty much ordered your presence,” and then found a blue shirt in the office closet that had fit her nicely. It’s strange, really, how their parents demand their presence and Neal and Regina jump to accommodate. Though maybe that’s only what children do when they have parents. Emma wouldn’t know.

 

Cora is speaking again, another little jibe at Regina. “I know a lovely hairdresser who can help you with your...situation,” she says, waving at Regina’s hair. Regina smiles, a thin line that barely curls up at the tips. “Clear your schedule for tomorrow–”

 

“I _can’t_ , Mother, I have a campaign to run,” Regina says, the stirrings of impatience in her voice.

 

Cora waves a careless hand. “Yes, I suppose you aren’t being seen in public at all with that hair.” It’s another sly reminder of what she’d let slip at the start of the dinner conversation, the hint that she’s the one keeping them from getting any media play. Emma steams silently in her seat, raring for a fight. Neal, who knows her a little too well by now, lays a warning hand on hers.

 

“Actually,” Regina says, her voice stretched thin and cool, “We’re doing a fun little TV spot in a couple of days. One of Emma’s best ideas.” She nods to Emma, who blinks at her in surprise. They’ve been arguing back and forth about it for days, and Tamara and Neal had been so forcefully supportive of her idea that she’d known that Regina would eventually fold. She hadn’t expected full-throated _approval_ , though.

 

Regina in the presence of Cora Mills continues to astound. “It’s just a little thing,” Emma says, awkward as all eyes at the table swing to her. “We’re kind of…running with a Robin Hood theme. The local news can’t possibly ignore it.” She catches Cora’s gaze and holds it from across the table, a brazen challenge.

 

“Perhaps,” Cora acknowledges, and Emma feels triumph flare in her belly. When she looks away, it’s to Regina, seated beside Cora with her eyebrows raised and the hint of _something_ gleaming in her eyes. Emma feels suddenly breathless at it, and she catches Regina’s eye and tips her chin in acknowledgement. The corner of Regina’s mouth quirks. “Though I suppose that depends on the news cycle for the day,” Cora finishes smoothly.

 

Regina says, “Well, I suppose we’ll have to hope that Killian Jones doesn’t clip a toenail wrong or something equally fascinating.” But she’s smiling now, as bouyed by Emma’s brazenness as Emma is. Neal watches them worriedly. Gold’s eyes gleam. “I’ve been approached by several independent bloggers who want to pursue the story of our media coverage,” she adds. “They’re just as stymied.”

 

There’s something about the way that she says it that is _off_ , and Emma watches her, eyes narrowed. Cora is too infuriated to notice that Regina’s bluffing, though. “There’s hardly a mystery there,” she says shortly. “It’s a doomed campaign in a town that doesn’t want your candidate. The sooner you understand that and return to school, the better.” She leans forward, a smile plastic on her face. “Darling, a campaign like this will only make you enemies in powerful places–”

 

“Like you?” Emma suggests, still bold and with little to lose. (Little to lose but _Cora knows about Portland_ , and she freezes a moment too late and regrets her words.) Cora’s face swings to her in outrage. Emma gives her a thin-lipped smile, then peeks at Regina. Regina is still watching her, an elbow on the table and her chin resting on the back of her hand. She’s never looked at Emma like this before, amused and lidded-eyed and unguarded.

 

Cora says, unbalanced at last, “Regina, you’ve been given every opportunity to succeed. Don’t squander that on a lark.” She clears her throat. “And take your elbows off the table.”

 

Regina removes her elbows from the table. The rest of the meal is small talk, Cora engaging a very uncertain Neal in more conversation than Emma suspects they’ve ever had before. Gold interjects from time to time, barely a comment to Emma for someone who had been so insistent that she attend. Regina eats mechanically, setting down her fork and knife after several minutes and observing the table conversation in silence.

 

Her gaze lands back on Emma within moments, catching Emma watching her across the table. Emma freezes, caught out. She can’t _help_ it, most of the time. She’s always too aware of Regina, too attuned to her presence, and she spots Regina eyeing her enough that she’s pretty sure that it’s mutual. Maybe it’s all that energy from how much they despise each other.

 

But they’d tag-teamed Cora for a bit there, hadn’t they? Emma rolls her eyes at Cora as she talks about a vacation she has planned for June– _you’re welcome to join us_ , she says to Regina, as though it isn’t primary season– and looks back at Regina in tentative solidarity. Regina is still staring at her, perfectly painted lips curled into the slightest of smirks, that _look_ back in her eyes. Emma gulps inwardly, heat rising in her belly. Outwardly, she smirks right back, their locked gazes sparking.

 

A creaking chair jolts her out of her staring contest with Regina. The meal has come to a close without her noticing, absentmindedly spooning dessert into her mouth and sneaking glances at her nemesis. Regina looks just as startled as Cora rises, placing her hands on Regina’s shoulder in a way that might have been maternal if not for how tightly they dig into Regina’s skin. “I only give you this advice because I want you to go far, dear,” she says. Regina sits stiffly, unmoving. “And I know better than anyone how you can achieve that.” She presses a kiss to Regina’s cheek, and Regina swallows, looking more affected by the kiss than by any of Cora’s manipulative words all night.

 

Cora flits away, off to another room, and Regina still sits frozen in her seat. Emma is left with the baffling urge to go to her, to offer comfort to someone she doesn’t even like at the first sign of vulnerability. Thankfully, it’s Neal who moves to her, slipping a hand onto her shoulder where Cora had touched her, and Regina jolts, rising at last. “I need a drink,” she mutters, and Neal wraps an arm around her waist and walks her out of the room.

 

Emma follows, at a loss as to whether or not she can leave this enormous, stifling house just yet. Better to stick with Neal before she gets lost and winds up in Cora’s dungeon. There’s a second sitting room to the right of the dining room, down three stairs and decorated in darker wood tones. Emma starts toward it when a hand closes around hers, holding her in place.

 

“Ah-ah-ah,” Gold clucks, and Emma yanks her arm away from him, twisting around to face him. “Not just yet,” he says. He’s smiling, but his eyes are small and unfriendly, gleaming with smug malice. “We do need to have a chat, don’t we?”

 

Emma doesn’t answer. She’s never spoken to Gold. The one time they’d communicated had been through his aide, who had been forceful but kind when Emma had only been bitter. But that had been five years ago, and she’s learned since then how to deal with people like Gold.

 

She waits, and he speaks. “I think it’s time you leave,” he says, placing both hands on a cane that she hadn’t seen him walking with until now. He watches her, and it’s different than Cora, who watches her as though she isn’t worth Cora’s notice. Gold watches Emma as though she’s an acquisition, something to take apart and assess for value, piece by piece.

 

“Yeah,” Emma says, uncomfortable. “Thanks for, uh…your hospitality.”

 

She makes for the exit, only for Gold to clarify, “Leave Storybrooke.” She pauses, turns back. The smile is still there, snakelike on his face. “We had an agreement in Portland, didn’t we?”

 

Emma licks her lips, stubborn, the bitterness returning full-force. “I’ve kept to the contract. There was nothing in there about coming to Storybrooke.”

 

Gold’s smile is gone. “You will find, Ms. Swan,” he says, leaning forward on his cane, “That I have little patience for those who might endanger my son.” Each word is enunciated carefully, spelled out like a new threat. “And you, dearie, are a danger to him.”

 

It’s strange, really. She likes Neal, cares about him quite a bit, but it isn’t until Gold is standing in front of her and telling her to get away from him that she really feels defiant in her relationship. “I think Neal can make that decision for himself,” she says coolly. “Just like he made his own decisions in Portland.”

 

Gold’s lip curls. “You don’t know what you’re meddling with, Ms. Swan. There are whispers afoot, and if I’m not… _satisfied_ with their resolution, then, well.”

 

“I don’t take well to being told what to do,” Emma shoots back, unmoving.

 

Gold smiles, reptilian in its cold threat. “I advise you to tread lightly.”

 

He limps away heavily, back in the direction where Cora had gone, and Emma stands at the door, frozen at the unfairness of it all. This is how it will go, she knows, if secrets long kept get out to the world. Neal is the wealthy son of one of the experts in the field, darling of the media, and Emma has read back through old articles online to find all the girls Regina is so disdainful of. None of the coverage has been good for them. Maybe it’s Gold’s influence, maybe it’s Regina’s, maybe it’s just that aw-shucks grin that Neal is so good at flashing, but not one girl emerges from a Neal Cassidy Gold Media Shitstorm unscathed.

 

She glances back at the sitting room. Neal is on the couch, Regina beside him, both of them drinking beer and speaking in low tones. Regina looks tired, the sharp lines of her face turned soft and sad, and Emma shudders for a moment at the thought of what Regina might do to her if the truth comes out.

 

She doesn’t want to think about that. She just wants _out_ of this house, and Gold can be damned if he thinks that she’s going to run from Storybrooke because of his threats.

 

* * *

 

“So that was a bluff earlier, yeah?” Neal asks, popping the top off his beer and taking hers to do the same.

 

“Complete bluff,” Regina confirms. “But if it gets the job done, it gets the job done.” She clinks her beer with Neal’s, leaning back against the couch. “Mother will spend a day or two frantically pursuing leads on that, will ease up whatever control she has over local news and…” She sighs, feeling weary to her bones. There’s something about being around Mother that makes her age a dozen years, that makes her old and tired and worn down. “Maybe she’s right,” she says. “Maybe we just aren’t news.”

 

“Like hell we aren’t,” Neal says, nudging her. “We’re building a grassroots campaign from scratch! And we’re getting support. Fundraising is up–”

 

“Fundraising is up because the big donors would rather Killian Jones wins by a landslide rather than having to actually campaign against Blanchard,” Regina points out. She kicks off her heels, propping her feet up on Mother’s favorite overpriced coffee table. “No one thinks we have a chance. No one thinks this campaign has a chance.”

 

Neal shrugs. “Fuck them,” he says, taking a long swig of his beer. “The media and our parents can underestimate us all they want, but they aren’t the ones voting. We don’t need to have the candidate’s face plastered across tv screens to win the election. We need to get make the _people_ care.”

 

He understands people in a way that Regina never has. It’s why she never would have attempted this on her own, not without someone like Neal beside her. Regina understands policy, understands how to make the government work for them. Neal understands how they’re going to get the candidate elected, and his confidence bolsters Regina’s again. “Do you think the ad spot is going to win us people or lose them?”

 

Neal pauses. “I don’t know,” he admits. “It can be dicey, painting our guy as Robin Hood. We might lose some donors. Or they’ll think it’s a cynical way to win voters and won’t be fazed by it. Either way, people will be talking about us.”

 

“Right.” That matters more than whether it’s good press or bad press. They can move around town after, once the community recognizes Robin’s face, and make good impressions. “It’s not a bad idea. Even Mother can’t kill the publicity for this one.” She hesitates, then grudgingly admits, “Your girlfriend isn’t as bad as the last few.”

 

She expects Neal to be smug, not to slump in his seat and lean his head back in defeat. “Neal?”

 

“I’m in deep shit, Regina,” Neal says, finishing the last of his beer. “I’m in so deep, god.”

 

He sinks into the couch, staring up at the ceiling, and Regina says, a little sharper than she’d meant to, “Are you finally going to tell me your big secret?”

 

Neal shakes his head, oblivious to the way Regina’s face darkens at that. “It’s not just that,” he says. “I’m in love with Emma. I really think I am.” Neal, who falls for another girl every other day, rarely announces it so seriously, and Regina sits up, a lump in her throat.

 

“You say that about all the girls,” she says lightly, nudging him.

 

He doesn’t grin. He doesn’t even have that hopeless-in-love haze in his eyes right now, the one she remembers from every other girl. He sits, his eyes clear, and he says, “Emma’s different. You see it, too, don’t you?”

 

“I loathe her,” Regina reminds him, and maybe she’d had too much wine for dinner, and that’s why the words are sticking to her throat, a struggle to get out. “She’s insufferable. A perfect idiot. Possibly the most obnoxious, unlikable person you’ve ever dated, and Tina literally _drugged_ me once.”

 

“Don’t you?” Neal says again, persistent. It’s never been important to him before that Regina approves of his girlfriends. He’s paraded them to her, let her make comments under her breath and laughed at them, too. He’s let her step in with sharp words and chase them off forever when each relationship has blown up in his face.

 

Emma, as always, seems an exception to each rule.

 

Regina sighs. “I do,” she murmurs, and she tells herself immediately that she’s lying.

 

* * *

 

They hadn’t needed a permit to film this ad spot, which Regina suspects may change after Storybrooke endures what’s going on on Main Street right now, two days later. Jacinda is filming, catching the green-clad “Merry Men” as they weave across the sidewalk, drawing in stares and laughter from startled and delighted passersby. Emma is at the front of the pack, breathless with exhilaration, and Regina says, “Make sure to get her in. That angle. She looks good there.”

 

Jacinda gives her a look. Regina says, defensive, “We’re trying to bring in voters, aren’t we?” It isn’t her fault that Emma’s moderately attractive. Jacinda will have to spend just as long on the other women, too.

 

Jacinda pats her back and shifts, filming Neal as he twists around a delighted gaggle of preteen girls. “Are you filming a movie?” one of them asks excitedly. “Can we be in it?”

 

Neal just presses a finger to his lips, winking.

 

Mulan is in front of Granny’s, a prop sword in hand, and Ruby sits on the half-wall beside her with her legs swinging in her brown and green costume. “Welcome to Granny’s!” she says cheerfully. The Sunday afternoon crowd is just beginning to arrive at Ruby’s grandmother’s diner, and Ruby passes each customer a big, foil-wrapped chocolate coin. The coins have their logo on one side and Robin’s face on the other, and Emma had even talked Neal into dropping the “u” in honourable for the purposes of this stunt.

 

Emma is still weaving around the street with a sack of coins, handing them out to anyone who walks past, a few of the volunteers laughing with her as they do the same. People are watching, more amused than annoyed, and Regina feels in her stomach the whoop of triumph that Emma lets out. Neal is joining her a moment later, the two of them moving through the street together, and Regina’s smile fades for a brief moment.

 

And then– _finally_ – local news has responded to Sidney’s tip and arrives, filming them with relish. Regina exhales. It remains a mystery whether or not they’ll make it on air, but this is a _start_ , Emma’s ridiculous idea and Regina’s careful maneuvering to make it happen. The news cameras catch Sabine, tossing a coin like a frisbee to a boy who leaps into the air to catch it, and Regina gives Sabine a tight nod. It’s time.

 

One by one, their Merry Men see the sign, and they gather together in front of Granny’s, a tight circle of green and brown surrounded by curious onlookers. Then– finally– Marian emerges, a bow slung over her shoulder from her archery days, and Robin comes out behind her. “My name is Robin Locksley,” he announces, his voice steady. His public speaking is hit or miss at times, and Regina tenses from beside Jacinda, gripping her phone hard as she waits to see how he does. “For far too long, this town has been controlled by people who don’t have its best interests in mind.” His voice rises, steadies again. “I came to this town seven years ago, and I saw all the ways that special interests and lobbying have taken this town and twisted it for their own purposes.”

 

It’s a good day. Thank _fuck_ , it’s a good day for him. Robin lifts his chin, catching gazes, pulling the camera to him. “No longer,” he announces. “This year is when we take back Storybrooke and make it ours again! It’s time to bridge our differences, because when it comes down to it, there’s only one thing we all care about most of all.” He bends down, lifts a costumed Roland up from where he’d been hanging onto Marian’s hand, and gives them the warm grin that makes him seem most personable. “Making Storybrooke a better place for our children,” he says, and Jacinda exhales in a satisfied whoosh as she gets the last shot.

 

The crowd applauds, approving, and Regina studies the sea of green and brown around Robin and finds Emma already watching her. She’s grinning as she claps, eyes gleaming with their success, and she raises her eyebrows at Regina as though to dare her to challenge it.

 

Regina lifts her chin, looking down at Emma with a regal stare, and Emma just laughs and claps again, undaunted.

 

* * *

 

They wind up at Neal’s place to celebrate that afternoon, the office forgotten in favor of takeout and the extra chocolate coins. It’s still _Neal’s_ , which Regina finds surprising. Emma has been here for two months now– has insinuated herself into his life and work and friendships– but the living room is still all Neal, almost identical to how it had been when Regina had last been here before Neal had vanished for the weekend and returned with Emma. The only difference is a newspaper article taped to the fridge, one of the interviews that Sidney had done with Robin. It’s been taped with more care than anything else on the walls, perhaps Emma’s influence.

 

“She didn’t bring much,” Neal says, shrugging at the question. They’re in the kitchen for a quiet moment, touching base while everyone celebrates. Their segment hasn’t made it to the news yet, and Regina waits warily. “Emma’s kind of a wanderer, you know?”

 

“You mean a vagrant,” Regina corrects him, and Neal gives her a kicked-puppy look that succeeds in making her feel guilty. “Well, she is,” she mutters.

 

Neal shakes his head. “You have to admit, she did kick ass today,” he says, heading out of the kitchen with a fistful of plastic forks. “Somehow, you made her crazy idea work.” Neal throws credit around easily, cares little about propping himself up when he can pat everyone on the back for work well done. Regina is more selective about her praise. “I didn’t think we–”

 

He stops. The local news is on TV, and Tamara shushes everyone and turns up the volume. “We’re coming in today with some breaking news from our local grassroots campaign,” one of the announcers says, flashing a white smile at the camera while a video appears in a split screen. It’s from earlier, Emma and Neal laughing with their band of Merry Men, and Regina hisses a “Yes!” as the announcer speaks.

 

“And breaking news it is. Sources in Portland, Oregon, have identified this woman for us as Emma Swan, who was arrested for grand larceny five years ago.” Emma is frozen in place, staring at the screen with her eyes wide. Regina shakes her head, because _no_ , this isn’t how it’s going to end, _no_ , Emma _fucking_ Swan with her criminal record– they can spin this–

 

The other announcer laughs as Robin appears in the footage, too late, _god no_ – _“For far too long, this town has been controlled by people who don’t have its best interests in mind,”_ Robin says, voice steady.

 

“Puts a different spin on their Robin Hood gimmick, doesn’t it, Anna?” the male announcer laughs. “And here’s where the plot thickens,” he says.

 

Beside Regina, Neal has gone very still, and Regina says desperately, “Tell me this isn’t the secret you’ve been keeping from me. We can spin this. Tell me they’re not going to say anything that we can’t spin.”

 

Neal turns to face her, his eyes hollow, and the male announcer says, “Our own Elias Gold is the one who funded Ms. Swan’s defense team and negotiated a conditional plea bargain. All the way out in Portland! That’s Portland, _Oregon_ , not Maine.” He shakes his head disbelievingly at the screen. Regina stares, her stomach bottoming out. “Prior to the plea bargain, Ms. Swan had insisted that she’d been an accessory for a boyfriend who’d disappeared. But after Gold’s involvement…” He lets his voice trail off.

 

“Not only that, Hans,” Anna cuts in. “Records at a local motel indicate that her boyfriend had been one Neal Cassidy, or Neal Gold, Elias Gold’s son and Robin Locksley’s campaign manager.” The screen shifts again to Emma and Neal, carrying their sacks of gold coins with glee on their faces. Anna’s voice continues. “So much for the honorable thing to do, huh?”

 

Hans flashes a smile at the screen. “That’s a campaign that took ‘stealing from the rich and giving to the…well, _rich_ …’ a little too seriously. Looks like Mary Margaret Blanchard’s rough primary just became a cake walk.”

 

“She was a great English teacher,” Anna says. “We did this unit on bird-themed classics–” Tamara shuts off the screen before they have to hear any more about Mary Margaret Blanchard.

 

She leaves them in shell-shocked silence, the whole team staring at a blank rectangle of black as the narrative slips away from them, fading into despair. This is…this is bad. This is a _nightmare_ , and it’s so much worse than Regina had anticipated. She’d run through a dozen scenarios in her head for scandal, what Emma could have done, what they might have to do if a _secret baby_ shows up or if there’s record of _petty vandalism_ or anything other than _fucking grand larceny_ that _Neal’s a part of_.

 

This is a nightmare.  

 

Regina can’t stop herself. She’s seizing Neal before she can think, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him around, and she demands, “Is it true?” The others watch them in gripped silence, eyes trained on Neal. Neal is breathing hard, his face frozen, and he doesn’t speak.

 

It’s Emma who says, her voice careful and muted, meek as she’s never been before, “What is true is that I was arrested for the crime and I was convicted for it. Neal wasn’t–”

 

Regina jerks her head away from her, and Emma falls silent the moment that she does. Regina demands again, panic and dread a potent combination in her stomach, “Is it true?” and Neal can only nod helplessly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been remiss in my appreciation! I owe thanks to Tuna for her help with the first few chapters and with elements of last chapter, and thanks to Pleth for her readthrough and help with this chapter and the next few that follow. And to Maia and Wren for their enthusiasm as readers!! Y'all are amazing and so is everyone reading this– your kudos and comments mean the world to me. <3

**APRIL 9**

_ 63 Days Until the Primary _

 

Mostly, Emma just watches TV. 

 

There isn’t much else to do. She hasn’t gone back to the office since the story had broken. Neal had asked her, that first morning after, and she had demurred while he had gone. Maybe that makes her a coward. Maybe she should be trying just as hard as he is to clean up the damage she’d caused, but all she can think of when she considers it is the stares.

 

They had stared that first night, and no one had spoken at all. That had been the worst part of it, the absolute silence as everyone had gone home. Only Tamara and Regina had stayed, talking strategy with barely a glance at neither Emma nor Neal, and Emma had slunk off to bed and left Neal to interject with unwanted comments. 

 

She hadn’t heard what they’d been saying, only Regina’s voice, low and furious, and Neal subdued as he’d taken it. Regina is going to  _ kill  _ her if she ever sees her again. Regina is going to–

 

She changes the channel back to the local news, determined to think less about  _ that _ . The local news is a fun new form of torture for her. They haven’t had a scandal in  _ ages _ , as Anna-the-announcer says wistfully, and they’re delighted to have Emma to take apart. 

 

“There was something about Emma,” says the man they’re interviewing. Emma doesn’t recognize him, but there is something familiar to his face, to the way he strokes his little beard. “She was always…you know, ripping the wings off of flies, fighting with my poor children…she didn’t stay long.” 

 

_ Oh _ . Now she remembers him. He’d been Foster Father Number Six, whom she’d run away from after his oldest son had pinned her against the wall and tried to put a hand up her shirt. She had blackened his eye and been locked in her room for a day over that, and she’d gotten hungry and slipped out the window with her backpack and nothing else. 

 

She doesn’t recall ever ripping wings off of flies, but she guesses he’d need more material to stay on TV. “A troubled past for little orphan Emma,” Hans-the-announcer says to the cameras. “Passed between group homes and foster families, she never had a strong parental figure.” 

 

“Petty theft was an outlet for her,” Anna chimes in. “She’d been taken in and brought back to her guardians each time. It must have been a dream come true to meet a wealthy, handsome man while on the run.” She sighs dreamily. 

 

Emma shuts off the TV, mildly ill. She turns it back on a few minutes later, Regina’s face filling the screen. Emma leans forward. “We are not shutting down our campaign,” Regina is saying coolly. She’s sitting in the candidate’s office, tapping long fingers against the desk and her face unreadable. “I hardly think that mistakes made by children have any import on Robin Locksley’s respected record as an advocate for the disadvantaged, nor on our plans to expand the superstore to increase employment and Storybrooke upper mobility.” 

 

She’s so damned  _ good _ at this, and Emma leans back again, feeling her muscles unclench as she listens to Regina’s smooth tones. “I would be happy to go into detail on any of that,” Regina says, smiling thinly. “I don’t think we’ve had an election focusing on the issues in as long as Storybrooke has had these issues.” 

 

The camera cuts back to Anna and Hans. “I want to hear more about Neal Gold’s time in Portland,” Anna says. “Was he there on business? Or was it more of a Bonnie and Clyde kind of relationship?” 

 

“Neal has no comment for the press,” Regina says calmly. Her calm is catching, her sheer confidence in the face of two chirpy announcers. “We would like to stop wasting time on ancient history and get back to trying to better Storybrooke.” 

 

“How are you going to better Storybrooke when you have a convicted criminal on your staff?” Hans demands. “Is Emma Swan still on your campaign team?” 

 

Anna chimes in, “Did you know that she had a criminal record when you hired her?” 

 

Regina looks trapped for a moment, and Emma waits for the inevitable, for  _ I didn’t hire her at all  _ or for  _ no, she isn’t working with us anymore _ . What the hell had she been thinking, setting down tentative roots in a town that would reject her when given the chance? “Yes,” Regina says finally, her features schooled into something unreadable. “Robin Locksley believes that people can be rehabilitated. Look at Ms. Swan. With all that baggage, she was able to find a place where she could help make a difference.” 

 

She purses her lips into a smile. “She’s been an invaluable member of our outreach committee. She understands the people in this town, the people who deserve better than the status quo.” 

 

It’s all lies, carefully constructed to spin this story, and it shouldn’t feel quite so good to hear them from Regina. Regina doesn’t believe a word of them. Regina just wants out of this scandal that she’d predicted from the start, and she’ll praise Emma to the moon and back if she needs to.

 

Still, she’s surprised that Regina wouldn’t just take this opportunity to rid herself of Emma altogether. There’s no way that anyone is fighting to keep Emma on the team right now, unless they believe firing her will send a negative message to their demographic. After all, there are plenty of kids in Storybrooke who get on the wrong side of the law and never manage to recover from it. It behooves them to protect her so fiercely now.

 

Even Regina, who must be ready to finish her off by now.

 

* * *

 

She goes for a run in the morning, a single attempt to get out after Neal says, the night before,  _ Are you sure you don’t want to go to the office tomorrow? _ She knows that being inside like this and wallowing in silence isn’t exactly a winning look on her, and the tiny bit of her that still has some pride drags herself out at six am to get herself off the couch. 

 

She only means to run by the beach, up to the path into the woods that winds around to the biggest park in town. Instead, she finds herself on Main Street, jogging past the superstore with the wind in her hair and her muscles aching as though to punish her for the past few days on the couch. It feels good, to hurt, to feel alive with blood pulsing through her veins. It feels right.

 

She doesn’t expect to see anyone. She’d gotten out so early so she  _ wouldn’t  _ see anyone, so she could sit nonchalantly at the breakfast table as though she’d had a long and busy morning when she’d been alone with recriminations instead. 

 

But of course, there’s no single burst of productivity that Emma can have without Regina outdoing her.

 

Regina is standing in front of the campaign headquarters, pacing back and forth in the empty street as she speaks on the phone. “Yes, it’s under control,” she says, her voice carrying through the stillness of dawn. Emma hesitates where she is, far down the street, afraid to move any closer. “Yes, I’m fine,” Regina says, and her voice is more strident now, pitched at a higher octave than it had been on the news. “We’re going to get through this.” Her voice cracks, sharp and sudden, in the middle of her assurance, and she stops pacing for a moment and looks up.

 

Her eyes catch onto Emma, who’d been about to flee from the scene and had found herself, instead, rooted to the spot. They’re still a block apart, the street and sidewalk bare between them, and Emma watches Regina with a deep, abiding yearning. She wants to go back there, to join her in the office and  _ help _ . She wants the campaign to be under control, like Regina had insisted on the phone, and she wants to be back where she belongs.

 

Instead, Regina takes a step toward Emma with her eyes burning, and Emma turns on her heel and runs back home, gasping as though she’d just fled a demon. 

 

She doesn’t leave the couch again.

 

When she isn’t watching the same stories about her over and over again on the local news, she’s browsing the Internet to find gossip.  _ Gossip _ , as though she hasn’t taken over the gossip pages of late. Neal’s involvement in this means that it’s beginning to leak into gossip blogs and columns, and Emma reads each one with grim preparedness to be vilified. 

 

The story as it had actually been: Emma, a seventeen-year-old, had broken into a car only to find that it had already been stolen. The car thief had been a scruffy man nearly ten years her senior, and she’d had little enough to lose that she’d fallen in with him. 

 

Neal had been good to her at a time when no people had been, and developing feelings had been inevitable. They hadn’t talked too much about their pasts or their families, not until close to the end, and Emma had been…at peace with him, at least. She doesn’t know if she’d been in love as much as she’d been drunk on having  _ someone _ , on there being someone in the universe who might have missed her if she were gone. 

 

It had been a nice feeling.

 

Neal had paid only in cash for everything at first, determined to  _ stay off the grid _ , and Emma had been foolish enough to believe that they might be the same. Neal had mentioned his parents only sparingly– abandoned by his mother as well, his father cruel enough that Neal had been afraid to be around him. There hadn’t been hints of wealth until they’d been all but out of cash and Neal had paid for a motel room, once and shamefacedly, with a credit card that he’d plucked from an expensive-looking wallet. 

 

It had been only days later when Neal had unveiled his final scheme. Before he’d met her and they’d been reduced to petty theft, he had stolen a box of obscenely expensive watches that he’d been hiding away. All Emma had had to do was to retrieve them, and then they’d be free, ready to start a new life together.

 

Emma had gone, trusting and bright-eyed, and she’d made it back to their arranged rendezvous only to be immediately arrested for grand larceny. She’d kept quiet at first, had refused to name Neal as the mastermind behind the theft until she’d found out that someone had called in a tip. Then she’d been furious, right up until she’d been sitting in court and had found out the truth about Neal and everything that had followed.

 

Gold had called in the tip, of course. Gold had found them and forced Neal out of Portland with one well-placed call. Gold had swooped in to save Emma from any jail time, and Emma had only understood once she’d settled and had had a chance to Google her so-called guardian angel. She’d only forgiven Neal once he’d found her in Tallahassee a few months ago and had made it clear that her freedom had been his only condition for returning home.

 

So Neal had kind of bailed her out, Emma guesses, and she can’t blame him too much for his father’s actions. She  _ can  _ blame him for seeing the cops and running, for knowing exactly what kind of treatment they would have gotten if it had been Neal Gold with Emma in the police station and for him still leaving Emma to it alone instead. Maybe that’s unfair. Maybe she would have done the same. Sacrifice doesn’t come easily to her, not when she has known and trusted and been betrayed so many times by those for whom she would have done anything.

 

It’s just…she’d thought that Neal had been different, that’s all. 

 

Even now, he bears the weight of the accusations in silence, no comment that might exonerate Emma in the public opinion. The media is just fond enough of Neal that they’ve decided to follow the narrative that Regina must love, that she’s another  _ mistake  _ that Neal has never let go of.

 

_ She isn’t even that pretty _ , reads one of the comments on an entertainment website.  _ How does Neal get scammed by this chick and still take her back?  _

 

As it turns out, Neal is society famous, famous for being famous without having to do anything for it. He has an Instagram account that she’s teased him about where he takes brooding pictures in bad lighting and promotes hair products for men and gets tens of thousands of likes for it. Emma reads the comments below his latest picture, posted the morning of their ad spot.

 

They aren’t kind to her.  _ We believe you!  _ comments come in an onslaught, as do ones accusing her of being a bitch, a slut, a whore, and some words she’d rather not read at all. They refer constantly to someone they call  _ the Evil Queen _ who is going to  _ put that bitch in the ground _ , and Emma can’t make sense of it.

 

She finally figures it out when she goes to Twitter, searching her name with morbid curiosity.  _ The Evil Queen eats little blondes like Emma Swan for dinner _ , one tweet reads cockily, and Emma clicks on the thread.

 

_ I heard she ruined Wendy Darling _ , one of the responses reads.  _ Made sure she’d never get a job in her field again after Neverland _ . Emma knows that name, and she Googles it, finds a dozen articles about a scandal in a gentlemen’s club that has no mention of Neal and a dozen mentions of Wendy Darling.

 

That isn’t nearly as interesting as the byline.  _ Sidney Glass _ . Regina had done this. Regina is the  _ Evil Queen. _

 

Emma searches frantically, and she finds more, more, more. She has to dig through eight pages of search results for Wendy Darling before she even finds a LinkedIn account or anything neutral, let alone positive. Who were the others? There had been a Tina...Tina… 

 

_ Tina Bell _ . Searches for her are even more grim. She’d been incarcerated for a few months, and has since been fodder for the media on one of the  _ Real Housewives  _ series. She is soundly disliked and resented, and even her own social media posts are inundated by people shouting about Neal, years later. 

 

That might be Emma, someday, when Regina is done burying her. 

 

There are discussions about Regina and Neal on gossip blogs, people who are already waiting to see what Regina’s going to do with Emma.  _ It’s kind of creepy how devoted the Evil Queen is to Neal _ , one comment reads.

 

The response is defensive.  _ I think it’s sweet. He needs someone taking care of him. Wish it were me. _

 

_ His mom ran off when he was a kid. The Evil Queen just thinks that she’s replaced her _ , comes the next, followed by a lot of typed laughter. Emma stares at them, feeling worse and worse. 

 

Regina is absolutely going to destroy her. She’d warned Emma from Day One, had made it clear exactly what would happen if Neal had gotten in trouble because of Emma. Emma has no doubt that Regina is going to blame her for all of this, that it will be Regina who is her undoing more than media she doesn’t care about. 

 

Regina is going to think that she had been right about Emma all along, and that burns more than anything else.

 

She feels fragile, lately, lost in quicksand. It’s only been a few days since she’d pulled off a scheme that had been  _ ridiculous _ , that should have had her laughed out of the office. Instead, even Regina had thrown her support behind it. They’d trusted her, and she’d ruined the campaign in return. Regina is genuinely trying to make a difference in this town, and Emma had sabotaged her with her past failures.

 

The worst tweets she sees are the ones from political personalities in the area, the ones who had been keeping half an eye on the campaign and tweeted occasionally about it.  _ A grassroots campaign to take down the Storybrooke machine?  _ one had tweeted a week ago.  _ You can’t help but root for Locksley, even if it is a lost cause. _

 

Emma stares at that comment until her eyes are blurry and she  _ hurts _ , hurts for what has been broken because of her.

 

* * *

 

“You know, you’re running out of vacation days,” Neal says lightly in the morning. He’s packing up for the day, sneaking glances at her and pretending that they aren’t full of judgment. 

 

Emma gives him a tight smile in return. “I think I’m probably doing less damage here than I would there.” Neal frowns, displeased with her answer, and Emma doesn’t point out that they’re  _ his  _ friends, that she has never been anything more than Neal’s Girlfriend to them. And now, their doom.

 

She dares to ask, “How are they doing?” 

 

“Scrambling,” Neal says bluntly. He rubs the back of his neck. “Regina reams me out a dozen times a day. It’s a wonder she’s still talking to me.” He laughs bitterly. “Optics, I guess.” Even the Evil Queen has her limits, and Regina had been angry with Neal before. Emma can only imagine how furious she must be with her. 

 

She shivers, staring down at her cereal. “She seems to be working hard on spinning this.”

 

“She always works hard,” Neal agrees. “But she’s losing hope of getting out of this. We all are,” he says, and he tosses her another sidelong glance. “There isn’t much we can do at this point. The local news is having a field day with this. They even polled Storybrooke and found that only two percent would be comfortable with Robin in Town Hall. I don’t know what the point of wasting donors’ money is at this juncture.” 

 

He sighs, and Emma has no response for him.

 

She watches the local news again that afternoon, sees Anna and Hans interview a neighbor who insists that Emma has broken into his apartment and stolen little items when his back is turned. “You know, just a bit of silverware here, a few pairs of socks, an old ottoman…just enough to feed her craving for burglary,” he says, nodding sagely. Emma, who has seen him leave his ottoman on the porch enough times that the kids on the block had broken it to pieces, rolls her eyes at the screen.

 

Regina is back again today, being interviewed by a politely dubious Hans. “You can’t possibly tell me that you plan to continue your campaign,” he says, frowning. 

 

Regina smiles, cool and unruffled. Emma knows her well enough to see the haggardness behind her smile, the hints of bags under her eyes concealed by makeup, the purse of her lips that betrays lurking despair. “Until Storybrooke has the leadership it deserves, I will continue to fight for it,” she says, and  _ that _ she means.

 

Emma curls up on the couch, stares at Regina on the screen in quiet misery. Her brown eyes seem to light up when she finds opportunity to turn the conversation back to the campaign. She’s always been striking, stunning in a way that has annoyed the hell out of Emma even pre-scandal. Now, there’s a vulnerability to it, an exhaustion that makes Emma hurt. Emma can’t tear her eyes away from Regina, suffers silently with her as she comes up with retort after retort to each of Hans and Anna’s remarks.

 

When Regina is gone from the news, Emma shuts it off again, dragging her feet as she pulls out the laptop again.

 

She’s just Googling the third-to-last girlfriend of Neal’s when there’s a tentative knock on the door, and she calls out, “It’s unlocked,” and stares at the computer so she won’t have to catch another of Neal’s  _ glances _ . “I’m not in the mood, Neal,” she says as the door opens. “I know you think–” 

 

She stops. It isn’t Neal at the door, watching her solemnly. It’s Mary Margaret Blanchard, who offers a sad smile and then fidgets a bit with her fingers. “Hi,” Emma says warily. “Why are you here?” 

 

Mary Margaret eyes her for a thoughtful moment, and then fidgets again. Emma waits, itchy at this new twist, and she finally blurts out, “Are you going to thank me?” It’s meant to be a joke, but it emerges hurt and accusing, raw like all of this has felt for days.

 

Mary Margaret blinks. “Actually, I’m here to offer you a job,” she says.

 

Emma laughs.  _ Cackles _ , really, nearly hysterical, because  _ fuck _ , Regina had been right about yet another thing, and Mary Margaret is just absurd enough to try to poach Emma  _ now _ . “You have  _ got  _ to be kidding me.” Mary Margaret just waits, patient. “Haven’t you seen the news? Don’t you get why it is that my campaign is going under?” 

 

Mary Margaret moves delicately through the living room, taking a seat on the opposite side of the couch as Emma stares balefully at her. “I understand that you have a gift with people,” she says. “They trust you. They like you, because you care about them. I need someone like you on my team.” 

 

Emma barks out a laugh. Mary Margaret sighs. “I don’t care about media exposure or bad press,” she says. “I don’t think I would get bad press from hiring you, either. And scandals don’t bother me. I  _ know _ this town. I’ve been teaching here for twenty years. People know me. And that will always matter more than local news that no one watches outside of the dentist’s office.” 

 

She smiles, reaching out to squeeze Emma’s hand. “And I think…they’ve been tearing you apart for this. I don’t think it’s your fault. And I think that hiring you will send that message, too. You don’t deserve a referendum on your character for something that happened in the past.” Her eyes are shining, earnest and kind, and Emma remembers Marian calling her a snake.

 

She doesn’t seem like a snake. She seems like someone who genuinely wants  _ Emma _ , who sees value in her instead of the poison she’d spread to the last group who had made the mistake of believing in Emma. 

 

Regina would be so  _ fucking  _ furious with Emma if she joins the enemy. Regina would be so fucking  _ justified  _ if Emma betrays them again like this, and Emma swallows and shakes her head. “Maybe I don’t,” she says. “But I can’t…” She can’t finish the sentence.

 

Mary Margaret seems to understand. “I see,” she says, her face falling. “Isn’t there some way that I can persuade you to consider it?” 

 

“I don’t think so,” Emma says, and she manages a smile. “I really…I appreciate the offer, though.” It’s the first time in days that she’s felt like she’s done something right. “You’re pretty great. You’re just not…”

 

She stops again, uncertain what she’s going to say.  _ The Locksleys _ , maybe, though it had felt a whole lot more like  _ Regina _ . 

 

Mary Margaret nods, taking a breath. “I hope this passes quickly for you,” she says, sincerity in her words. “And after the primaries…there will be a job waiting for you on my staff, if you want it. For Regina, too.” Even she huffs out a laugh at that, both of them all too aware that it’s a lost cause. “I’ll need all the help I can get to beat Killian Jones, right?” 

 

“Right,” Emma agrees, and the tentative smile on her face is genuine. “Good luck, okay?” 

 

Mary Margaret hesitates at the door. “Regina…Regina’s lucky to have a friend like you,” she says finally. 

 

“Oh,” Emma says, flustered. “No. We hate each other. I’m just here for Neal.” She jerks a thumb at the apartment. “Regina would probably be happy to lose me to you if it weren’t such a blow to her pride.” She laughs, though it sounds strained to her ears. “But I’ll look you up if, um…” She can’t bring herself to say  _ if we lose _ , even now. “I’ll see you around, okay?” she says instead, and she turns away before the door clicks closed behind Mary Margaret.

 

* * *

 

Neal doesn’t talk to her much these days. He collapses on the couch when he comes in, and he’s out first thing in the morning. It’s uncharacteristic, really. She’d had to drag him out the door in the mornings before all this had happened, and his function in the office had been more about lightening the mood than any strenuous work.

 

Lightening the mood might be a lot more strenuous these days, she guesses. Still, between the near-silent treatment and his withdrawal, Emma is on edge around him, more attuned to every glance and grimace. “You’re leaving early today,” she says one morning, forcing a casual tone. Neal has barely gulped down a few sips of coffee and he’s already heading for the door, and Emma’s pretty sure it’s because she had already been at the breakfast table when he’d come in. 

 

“Lots to do,” Neal says briefly. “Regina and Robin are doing some podcast interview today that’s supposed to be sympathetic. Tamara is working on our regular donors. Sabine is trying to do an overhaul on the ad spot so it isn’t quite so…thief-oriented.” 

 

Another glance, as though he hadn’t been the one to steal the watches in the first place. “And what are you doing?” Emma asks. She can hear the touch of accusation in her voice, unbidden, and stares down at her cereal again. 

 

“I’m trying to keep us all from falling apart, okay?” Neal says, defensive. “You know, they never took me all that seriously, but nowadays I just…sit there, doing whatever I’m told like I’m a fucking intern. Somehow, this has become my mess.” He sounds resentful, and Emma’s eyebrows shoot up. 

 

“How is it  _ not _ ?” she demands, and Neal swings around, glowering at her. “How the  _ fuck  _ are you going to act like you don’t deserve–” 

 

“What? My campaign to be ruined? My name dragged through the mud? My sister refusing to  _ talk  _ to me half the time?” Neal spreads his hands, helpless and irritable. “And now you’re blaming me, too. I thought we were past this.” 

 

Emma stares at him. “ _ Past  _ this?” she echoes. “I sit here every day watching old foster parents call me some kind of  _ sociopath  _ because your dad framed me for stealing those watches. Watching perky Anna onscreen speculating about all the ways I’m fucked up. Reading these stupid  _ tweets _ – Because you  _ ran off _ and left me with the–” 

 

“I ran off?” Neal echoes disbelievingly. “I saved us both, didn’t I?”

 

Emma chokes out an outraged laugh. “I was  _ convicted _ !”

 

“Yeah, and I had my dad get you out!” 

 

“That doesn’t make it okay that you  _ left _ !” Emma says, and she can feel her eyes burning, old pain quaking through her. She’s supposed to be over all of that, supposed to have taken this as a chance to  _ start over new _ like Neal had suggested when he’d found her in Tallahassee. He’d said that he’d been searching for her for years, that he’d wanted to make things right. He’d looked at her again in that way where she can believe that she matters to someone, and she’d forgiven him and kissed him when he’d initiated it and thought that it might be better to leave the past in the past.

 

But the past still lingers, still poisons everything that follows, and Emma is blinking back tears as Neal snaps, “Maybe not!” and he looks remorseful for a moment, his own eyes red and raw. “Maybe it wasn’t. But at least I’m still  _ trying _ . At least I go in every day and sit through Regina’s snide comments and everyone’s silent blame and…god, it  _ sucks,  _ Em,” he says, burying his face in his hands. “And I hate every minute of it. But I’m trying. I’m doing what I can to help fix things because I  _ know  _ it’s our mess, and you’re…” He looks up at her, the  _ glance _ finally coming out in full force. “You’re  _ hiding _ .” 

 

Emma is silenced at last at the accusation, fumbles for a retort and comes up empty as Neal straightens as though he’s about to unload everything he’s been holding back for days. “Do you have any idea how much everyone wants you there?  _ Needs _ you there? Do you know what a difference just a few interviews with you would make for the campaign?” He gulps in a breath as Emma stares at him, at a loss. “I come in every day because they’re all still fighting. And you’ve already given up.” 

 

He swallows, straightens again, and turns for the door then stops. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t have said any of that. Just a little stressed.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and then shuffles out the door as Emma sits in miserable silence.

 

She wants to hate him, to write him off on the spot for his  _ self-centered idiocy _ , how the  _ fuck  _ does he justify–

 

She’s angry. But even more than she’s angry, he’s  _ right _ , and she knows it. She’s been hiding away, has caused this crisis just as much as he had and hasn’t done a thing to help since. She justifies it in every way she can, tells herself that she’s doing them a favor by staying out of the way, and she does it because she’s a coward afraid of their anger.

 

She’s betrayed them, and they must hate her for it. 

 

She shuts her eyes, lets unfair, selfish tears leak from behind them, and then stares at herself in the mirror until she’s calm. She can’t go back now. It’s been too long. No one in that office will forgive her now, not just Regina.

 

Oh,  _ god _ , Regina.

 

She’s in the bedroom before she can think about it, seizing her clothes from where they’re folded in one drawer and finding the rest of her things in the other drawer she’d claimed for herself. She has just enough to carry in one backpack. 

 

Just the way she likes it. Pack and run, find a new city where she can disappear. Let the world forget about Emma Swan until she’s just another dozen negative search results on Google. 

 

She slings her backpack over her head, heading into the kitchen to grab a sandwich for the way out. Her hand pauses on the fridge door, lingers on the newspaper article that she’d taped up. It’s an interview with Robin, the one that they’d gotten with Sidney Glass that had made Regina swell with pride. Her joy is as catchy as is her anger, and the office had been lighter that day, hopeful that the successful interview had been a sign of more publicity to come.

 

No one had expected this kind of publicity, and Emma lets out a bitter laugh.

 

She makes her sandwich and walks to the door, pulling it open with one final glance back at the apartment. 

 

When she turns back to the doorway, Regina says, “ _ You _ .” 

 

Emma jumps– actually  _ jumps _ , stumbling back and banging her head on the doorpost. Regina is standing in the doorway, her fist raised as though she’d been about to knock when Emma had pulled the door open. Her eyes flicker over Emma, pausing on the backpack with grim comprehension.

 

Emma says, humiliated and shamed, “I was just, um…bringing the laundry downstairs to the washer.” She unzips the backpack, tugs out the first item of clothing to show Regina her proof for her feeble excuse. Her sandwich comes out with it, landing on the floor in its flimsy plastic bag. “That was…a snack,” she says feebly. “Laundry makes me hungry.” 

 

Regina says, her lips pursed, “Sit down.” 

 

Emma sits. The couch feels too squashy today. She’d always liked the fact that it is nearly impossible to sit on it without falling back into it, but today, she sits at the edge of it and stares at the ground, as rigid as she can manage. Regina stands, her hands folded at her waist and her face unreadable.

 

Emma says, “Did Neal say something?” It sounds small, cowed, and she hates it. She’s spent so much time building up Regina’s anger in her mind that she’s afraid of it already, that she flinches when Regina shifts as though she already has reason to fear.

 

Regina says, “I haven’t spoken to Neal today.” A light furrow to her brow, a press to her lips: she is at a loss when she considers this fact. “We haven’t been on the best of terms lately.” 

 

“Because of the media,” Emma prods, waiting for the explosion she deserves.

 

Regina scoffs, and Emma tenses. “Because he nearly sent a seventeen-year-old  _ child _ to prison because he was trying to get some kind of thrill at screwing over his father,” she says, her voice hard and angry.

 

Emma stares up at her in astonishment. Regina’s jaw is clenched, her eyes flashing, and none of it feels directed at Emma. It’s– after bearing the blame for this for days, under the snide judgment of Anna and Hans and social media, it’s the first moment of validation she’s experienced, and it’s coming from  _ Regina _ . 

 

She has to blink back tears, has to clear her throat to keep from sobbing in some kind of twisted relief, and Regina says, subdued, “Unless you really are stealing your neighbor’s socks, in which case you probably deserved to go to prison. Or have some really unpleasant fetishes. You know that’s the kind of thing that can sink us in politics–” 

 

Emma is laughing, wet and choking, and Regina says, “I do still despise you.” It’s matter-of-fact, without the same undercurrent that it might have once carried. “You’re still unbearable. Rude, childish… _ hideous  _ taste in clothes–”

 

“Hey,” Emma objects weakly. 

 

“–too brash for your own good, and too stubborn to admit to any of it,” Regina finishes, her lips curling into a very mild sneer. “But you aren’t the villain of this story.” 

 

“Neal isn’t, either,” Emma says, feeling suddenly charitable. “He did have Gold take care of my plea bargain. I guess he thought…I don’t know, that he could do more good if he weren’t in the middle of things.” 

 

It sounds weak even to her ears, and Regina snorts. “Or he’s never been able to take responsibility for anything in his entire life,” she says, shaking her head. “He’s…” She sighs. “Our parents are drastically different. My mother was more of a fan of trial by fire. Gold would have anyone who ever questioned Neal shipped away for it.”

 

It’s what she says about her mother that sticks, more than anything. “Your mother knew about Portland,” she says, remembering the slick aside during family dinner. She had thought it a display of Cora’s vast reserves of information rather than a threat. She had been wrong.

 

“Trial by fire,” Regina repeats. She has the same nervous habit as Mary Margaret, the fidgeting with her fingers with her hands clasped. “You should be aware that she won’t stop here. She’s going to take this scandal and scorch the earth with it if she can. She’s going to do everything in her power to make us regret ever having begun this campaign in the first place, and she’s going to be merciless with you.” 

 

It’s blunt, straightforward without apologies, and Emma appreciates that more than she would soft words that comfort like a Band-Aid. “Did you come here to tell me that?” she says, her fingers drifting over the rough fabric of the backpack. “What am I supposed to do about it?” Neal had wanted her to fight back, to help the campaign, but Emma is already certain that she’s outmatched.

 

“I came here…” The words emerge like a light sigh, a reluctant breath that has Emma watching as Regina’s fingers untangle, as her eyes drop and her hands smooth down her jacket. “I came here because I need you.” 

 

Emma stares. Regina sighs again. “We’re  _ trying _ ,” she says. “We’ve been spinning and spinning this story and nothing is helping.” 

 

“You need me to do interviews,” Emma says, understanding at last. Fear hollows out her stomach, leaves her cold and dreading. Whatever she says, she’s going to be torn apart, the sacrificial lamb to keep the campaign afloat. And she’s pretty sure she’ll do it, if only because it’s Regina asking her without any threat or demand.

 

“You’ve been here barely two months, but you understand this town,” Regina says. “You understand the people in it, how they work, how they think–” 

 

She’s buttering Emma up, making new plans, and Emma shakes her head. “I can’t change their minds with an interview,” she says immediately, offsetting Regina’s unrealistic expectations.

 

Regina snaps, “Would you shut up for a minute and  _ listen _ ?” She massages her brow as Emma falls silent, watching her balefully. “I don’t want you to do any interviews. I want to…” She takes another breath. “I want to win back this campaign from the media,” she says, and she finally sits down, perched at the edge of the couch as she turns toward Emma. “And I might  _ loathe  _ you–” 

 

“It’s very mutual,” Emma puts in, but her heart is swelling, impossible warmth spreading through her from her fingers to her toes.

 

“–but I know that you’re the only one who might know how,” Regina finishes, ignoring her interjection. “Tell me how we change the narrative.” 

 

Her eyes are dark, pleading, and there is a strange sort of desperate trust within them. Emma wants to marvel at it, at the fact that Regina Mills is the one who can make her feel, for the first time in a week, as though she is necessary. Emma wants to marvel, but Regina needs her help, and so she thinks instead.

 

She thinks of Anna and Hans cooing over every guest they bring on, each more ridiculous than the last. She thinks of Mary Margaret certain that she can win votes without even trying, and the political bloggers wistfully talking about Regina’s grassroots campaign. She thinks, Regina’s piercing eyes trained on her so hard that she can’t help but flush.

 

“I know how,” she says.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the wonderful reception last chapter!! you're all so good to me ily!!!
> 
> y'all said you wanted emma and regina? have some emma and regina. with swagger.

**APRIL 21**

_ 51 Days Until The Primary _

 

Emma had ducked into the bedroom and emerged wearing the shirt that she’d insisted she’d been bringing down to the laundry. Regina doesn’t comment on it beyond an arch of her brow that has Emma pinking as they head out of the house. “All this spinning– all the media–” Emma says, pausing at Regina’s car. Regina unlocks it and heads for the driver’s seat, but Emma holds up a finger. She opens the back door instead, pulls out the boxes of palm cards and grabs two stacks of them. “All of that gives power to the media when we don’t  _ need  _ that. Screw the media.” 

 

“Emma, I’ve grown  _ up  _ on this. We need the media.” But she’s hurrying along with Emma, keeping up as her feet ache in their heels. “That’s the first rule of a successful political campaign.”

 

“It’s bullshit,” Emma retorts, leading the way past Main Street to where the woods wind down toward the beach. “The media doesn’t vote.  _ People _ vote. Forget the media.”

 

And a part of Regina– the part that has been sorting this out for days– is just exhausted enough to try that.

 

The days without Emma had been a rush of frenetic activity, of arguments and back-and-forth and everyone struggling to do  _ something _ . But nothing had worked, and Regina had exhausted herself to tears more than once, watching her campaign fade away to dust. 

 

And Emma hadn’t been there. She’d taken out her frustrations on Neal, who had been an  _ idiot _ and deserved it. She’d shaken with anger when he’d finally told her the truth of what had happened. What the  _ fuck  _ kind of adult leaves a child– a  _ child _ , Emma had been  _ seventeen _ when Neal had met her, which is a whole second conversation that she isn’t going to have– to take the fall for his crime? What kind of–

 

She wonders now about the girls he’s brought home since Emma, if each of them has only been a placeholder while he’s been dealing internally with the Portland fallout. If he’s been dwelling on this for years without ever sharing it with her. Maybe he’s been covering for Emma in his own way, careful that Regina never takes her fury to a girl who wouldn’t have deserved it.

 

Regina had been away when Neal had finally come home, off with Daddy in Italy for a full year after. She had come home to a house even more oppressive than before, now with Gold skulking around and Mother disapproving. Neal had been the only one who’d been glad to see her, who had let her stay in his apartment until it had been time to leave to Yale, who had listened as she’d unpacked every interaction with Mother and struggled to find her peace with them. He had talked about his trek through the country and made it sound like one big adventure, and she had never thought that he might be hiding something this shameful from her.

 

She’d been furious to find out about it now, hurt and a little shell-shocked. She’s spent so long looking up to Neal– seeing all the things about him that she’d envied, his good nature and unworried charm and the way that he would absolutely  _ kill it  _ as the political candidate of Mother’s dreams, if he’d only had the drive– that this unkindness and cowardice has brought them crashing down to earth. Emma had never been the villain. Her  _ brother  _ had, and as silently as he’s accepted her anger, she can still feel it thrumming through her.

 

And Emma hadn’t been there.

 

It’s startling how different the office had been without Emma Swan underfoot, making snide comments and getting more done through sheer force of will than anyone else present. There’s an energy that Emma brings to the room, a fire as powerful as any of Regina’s sharp orders. The others had done what they could, had mustered up smiles and pretended they weren’t losing hope. But there had been glances at the empty seat at Ruby’s desk– an odd hush around it as though Emma had been gone forever instead of hiding out from intrusive media a few blocks away– and only Tamara had dared say what they’d all known.

 

_ We need Emma _ , she had said, and Neal had been vehement in his refusal and defenses. Emma had been through enough, he’d said. He isn’t going to bring her into this shitstorm again, he’d said. Let him take on the media instead, he’d said, and he’d been so guilty and stressed that Regina had refused immediately, sure he’d pull them in deeper. 

 

Tamara and Neal have been arguing about it for days now, and it had blown up again yesterday. Regina is surprised that Neal had even come in today. And Regina had been at her wits’ end, desperate for help in an office that has lost its spark, desperate for Emma’s infuriatingly bright new way of looking at things.

 

She had needed Emma not to fight off the media or make excuses for the campaign– not to prop her up as some rehabilitated convict for optics– but to  _ help _ , because Emma is very, very good at that. It really pisses Regina off, sometimes. “You can’t possibly believe that we can turn the tide with a few conversations, do you? We have a two percent polling right now.” 

 

“Neal mentioned,” Emma says dryly. “Let’s try to get it to ten today, okay?” She jabs a thumb toward the beach. There’s a rickety old park there, the kind common around here that looks about to collapse. An old, dilapidated swing set is at the center of it, a few little rocking toys and the metal frame of a toy bus surrounding it. 

 

There are a dozen kids playing in it, fearless and quick as they swing through the platform of the swing set and swing, stomach down, on the swings. Parents sit in the sand on threadbare towels, absorbed in conversations. Few of them look at Regina or Emma with any recognition. 

 

Emma, unbothered, sits down with them. “Hey,” she says, leaning back. Her palms are pressed to the sand, her long hair swept back in a ponytail that brings out the angles of her jaw. Her smile, like most things about Emma, is infectious. “This park really sucks, huh?” 

 

Ah. She’s started the conversation by insulting them. How very Emma Swan. “ _ Emma _ ,” Regina begins, all the goodwill that Emma had managed with distance gone again.

 

But the man beside Emma glances up at Regina, eyes sweeping over her pantsuit and bag and heels with deep distrust, and snorts, turning back to Emma. “Yeah, it does. You have kids?” 

 

“No. No way. I’m not good with kids,” Emma says. 

 

“She’s basically a child herself,” Regina interjects, and the man lets out another snort, still unimpressed by her. 

 

Emma cuts in again, “I’m helping out with the Robin Locksley campaign for mayor. You hear about that?” 

 

The man shrugs. The woman beside him cracks open an eye. “Isn’t he the one who spells honorable with a U?” 

 

Regina winces. “That was a typo,” she lies baldly. 

 

“No one asked you,” the man snaps. “I know your type. You charge in full of big ideas, pretend like you give a damn about this town, and then you change your tune the moment you get elected.” He scoffs. “I see you looking down at us. Who do you think you are?” 

 

“She’s Cora Mills’s daughter,” Emma says casually, tilting her head to the sun. Regina gapes at her in betrayal. Her clothes are enough to alienate half the town, but her name is a whole new level of implication. “You know Cora Mills?” 

 

The woman’s eyes flash. The man sits up, and a few eavesdroppers straighten. Everyone knows Cora Mills. No one likes Cora Mills. Regina had spent a dozen years of school listening to people whisper behind her back, to flunkies and hangers-on who didn’t give a damn about her, to people who’d liked her at first keep their distance because of Mother. The only two people who had bothered to give her the time of day had been Kathryn, her sole  _ appropriate _ friend, and Ruby, who had approached Regina after one too many days spent at Ruby’s diner until closing time, desperately dreading returning to her house. 

 

And Emma Swan has decided that their  _ voters  _ need to know that she’s Cora’s daughter in some twisted attempt to curry favor with them. She’d misjudged Emma, had believed that they might make a good team, and it had been so, so  _ idiotic _ . 

 

“We know Cora Mills,” another man says. “I used to have a good job before Cora Mills.”

 

“I used to be able to go out at night when I was a kid,” a woman says, sweeping her dreads back as she glares up at Regina. “My kids can’t even walk on our street anymore because of Cora Mills.”

 

“Cora Mills destroyed Storybrooke,” Emma agrees, stoking the crowd, and there’s a rumble of agreement, a rumble of anger toward Regina that makes Regina shiver with resentment. She stands tall, carves her face out of steel, and Emma says, “And no one wants to take her down more than Regina Mills.” 

 

_ What the hell is her game _ .

 

Very suddenly, the rumble quiets. Eyes swing around from Emma to Regina, heads tilt with interest, and Regina is the sole focus of attention. “Why?” the first man says, sneering at her once more. “You look like you’ve done just fine with her.” 

 

_ Why?  _ Regina knows  _ what _ like she knows the taste of a cause, like she knows how the world around her works. Regina’s been developing plans to revitalize the city and jumpstart its economy for years. Regina knows  _ how _ . But why?  _ Why _ is something she’s rarely explored in the rush to win.

 

She takes a deep breath. “I remember playing here,” she says, biting her lip as she searches her memories. Emma is watching her, is smiling with the kind of pure confidence that Regina finds infuriating. If Emma wants to manipulate the crowd against her, Regina won’t play along. “I remember when that bus was colorful and it had walls on it– the ones with those big smiley faces–” She sounds childish, and her brow furrows as she takes in her audience. They’re still listening, a few nodding in recollection. 

 

“I remember when the superstore first opened and my father took me to go get…a garden hose, I think,” she says, chuckling to herself. “There were so many people there. Everyone was so  _ excited _ . People were walking around the cutlery department like a whole world had opened up for them. I was…four, maybe? Five?” 

 

“Five,” offers one of the men. Regina remembers him suddenly. His name is…Claude, she thinks, and he’d been stupid enough to ask her out to homecoming when they’d been fifteen. She hadn’t been stupid enough to say yes. “The store was a ghost town by the time we were seven. My dad had worked there.” His father had been a drunk, from the gossip passed around in high school. Claude had shown up in broken shoes and a scowl most days, sullen and alone.

 

Regina nods to him grudgingly.  “My mother made sure that store was shut down. My mother took away anything that might have allowed for some equity in this town. She wanted you silenced, every one of you.” She catches the first woman’s eye, then the women clustered around her. They watch her. Wary. Listening. And Emma in the center of them, head tilted up to the sky and a secret smile on her face as though she knows Regina still won’t win this silent battle between them.

 

“That’s not what I want. I know this seems like…another rich bitch making plans for the town that will fall through,” she admits, if only to get Emma to jerk in place, to toss her a quirked eyebrow and press her lips together to keep from laughing. “But it can’t be just one person against my mother. It can’t be Robin Locksley against her, because he’ll lose. We need a revolution to take down Cora Mills.”

 

There’s a murmur at that. It sounds like it might be approval. Emma says, “Isn’t she great?” turning to the crowd as though they aren’t mortal enemies and Emma didn’t orchestrate this whole thing. 

 

“Aren’t you that girl on TV who went to prison?” someone else says.

 

Emma stiffens, her eyes losing their humor. She looks up and finds Regina’s gaze, and Regina holds it, puts aside her anger with Emma and projects calm at her for long moments before Emma exhales and says, “Yeah, so?” 

 

The boy who had spoken cranes his neck to eye Emma with some trepidation. “Did you really set your elementary school on fire?” 

 

Emma throws back her head and laughs, the sound exhilarating and enough to twist at Regina’s stomach. “Have a palm card,” she says, digging one out from her bag and offering it to the boy. “Cora doesn’t want any of you to vote. Cora is counting on the fact that you won’t vote. She wants to go up against Mary Margaret Blanchard, who doesn’t think she has to campaign, and she wants Killian Jones to win by a landslide.”

 

“Screw her,” the boy says, grabbing the card. “Who else wants one?” 

 

There are more than a dozen adults at the beach park who take a card, some dubious and some enthused. Regina logs them all at the back of her mind, already wondering how many will actually show up on primary day, already wondering how long this wave of energy will last. But it’s  _ something _ , and that’s more than they had had before.

 

“Nice try,” she says when they extricate themselves, Emma bouncing a nervous foot against one of the rocking horses. It bounces on its spring, and Emma lets it go. 

 

“Nice try what?” she says, giving the horse another kick. There’s a swagger to her step when she’s feeling confident, an obnoxious little movement that draws Regina’s attention to the sway of her hips. 

 

It’s a struggle to look away. “You threw me under the bus there,” Regina says, smug. “But I don’t get thrown so easily.” 

 

Emma stops swaggering. “Threw you under–” she sputters, twisting around to stare at Regina. “What do you think  _ happened _ back there?” 

 

“You tried good cop, bad cop,” Regina accuses her. It’s an easy tactic, to be sure, especially against Cora Mills’s daughter. “You wanted them to hate me so they would listen to you. I don’t appreciate being used as the villain of the story–” 

 

“ _ Regina _ ,” Emma says, rubbing her face in studied exhaustion. “I wasn’t throwing you under the bus. I’ve been watching you on TV for days.” Regina looks at her askance. Emma is the last person she’d have expected to be watching the news, to have watched all those ridiculous press conferences with the hapless idiots from the local news. “Yes, you looked perfect,” Emma says impatiently, and Regina realizes too late that she’s been cupping her hair, patting it down as though she’s onscreen now.

 

She drops her hand, her cheeks warm. Emma doesn’t react. “You’re good in the limelight,” she says instead. “You’re good with people when you talk about Storybrooke. Believe me, I was stunned, too,” she adds dryly. “I just assumed you were an asshole to everyone and their mother.” 

 

“Shut your mouth,” Regina says, unamused. “So what the hell was that back there? Force me into a corner?” 

 

“ _ That _ ,” Emma says, jerking a thumb back at the beach park. “Was a successful political campaign.” She speeds up suddenly, moving past Regina toward the boardwalk, her step light and smug in victory.

 

The swagger is back.

 

* * *

 

And so it goes, day after day. There is a certain freedom to speaking to people, to getting to listen to their concerns and explain their plans to address them. Regina has spent so much time buried in policy, lost in debates that had never had a human component, and it’s something else entirely to meet the people of Storybrooke.

 

They go out in teams to mosques and temples and churches, to parks and to clubs, to any public arena that they can. Tamara and Neal become their smooth-talking star team for the wealthy, maneuvering their way into events to chat about their charming candidate who wants to put Storybrooke on the map. Jacinda and Sabine spend more time at Sabine’s bakery than they had before, making casual conversation with those who stop in for beignets. Ruby plants herself in the diner, Mulan leads volunteers out to the parks, and Regina… 

 

“You make a good team,” Neal says when she notes, yet again, that it’s going to be Emma with her on their Saturday afternoon visit to Storybrooke’s only synagogue. “She evens out all your sharp edges and you motivate her to think on her feet. Gotta do what’s best for the campaign.” 

 

He grins, which is really just uncalled for. “You’re enjoying this,” Regina accuses him. “You’re using this as some twisted excuse to force me to interact with that girl and you’re  _ enjoying  _ it.” 

 

Neal leans back against the wall of the candidate’s office. “I mean, yeah. It’d be nice if my sister and my girlfriend might learn to get along. But this is for the campaign.” He grins again, so smug about it. “Come on, Regina. Haven’t you found any redeeming qualities in Emma by now?” 

 

Regina scowls at him and shakes her head stubbornly. “There are just some people I’m never going to like,” she says, irritated. “Emma Swan is one of them.” 

 

“Why not?” Neal challenges. “What could possibly be so terrible about Emma?” 

 

Regina glares at him, unamused at the way that he seems to find this hilarious. “She’s just… _ awful _ ,” she says finally. “ _ Terrible _ personality. She has no organizational skills, and she has the subtlety of a sledgehammer. No head for strategic thinking, too brash, and I don’t believe for a second that those curls are her natural wave! What, does she spend an hour every morning doing her hair? I can’t even  _ imagine  _ how vain she must be–” 

 

“I don’t think you can critique Emma’s vanity,” Neal says dryly. “I’ve shared a bathroom with you before.” 

 

Regina glowers at him. “You’re just as unbearable as she is. And at least I looked  _ good _ after spending all that time getting ready in the morning. She comes in looking like…like some… vapid reality show star all primped up and glowing–” 

 

“Is that not looking good?” Neal says dubiously, and Regina throws a campaign-personalized pen at him. It hits him directly on the forehead, leaving a pen mark in its stead. 

 

“I can see why you two get along,” Regina says, scowling. “You’re a  _ child _ . No wonder you decided to date a  _ seventeen-year-old _ –” 

 

Neal puts up a hand. “Hold up,” he says, defensive about it. “First of all, I didn’t  _ know  _ she was seventeen until after she broke into my car…” At Regina’s stare, he amends, “...That I had stolen first…” He makes a face. “Anyway, it wasn’t like that. We were on our own, you know? And she was really m–” 

 

“Do  _ not  _ tell me she’s mature for her age,” Regina says darkly. “First of all, I’ve  _ met _ her. She isn’t even mature for Roland’s age. Second of all, that’s the sleazy kind of thing that older men have said to me dozens of times when they’ve tried to pick me up back when  _ I  _ was seventeen.” She’d been seventeen and desperate to find a suitable boyfriend, desperate to find anyone who might meet Mother’s approval. She hadn’t been  _ that  _ desperate. 

 

Neal sighs. “Look,” he says finally. “I’m not going to say that it was a great thing to do. I’m not going to defend it. It was just…a complicated situation, you know? We didn’t have anyone else. I wasn’t thinking about how old she was. I was on my own and she was on her own and it just happened, I guess. I’m not proud of it. But I’m not going to say that I regret it, because Emma is…” He gets that goofy in-love smile again, and Regina feels the pit in her stomach grow. 

 

“Emma is  _ not  _ coming with me,” Regina says, pulling them back to a more comfortable topic. 

 

Neal sighs. “I thought you two were getting along.” 

 

“Coexistence is  _ not  _ getting along,” Regina says, offended. Yes, they’ve been working together, but there remains something infuriating about Emma, something that has Regina frustrated and annoyed with every interaction. “Why can’t I take out the volunteers?” 

 

“Because you made Ashley cry last time,” Neal points out. “You snapped at Merida so many times that she  _ left _ . Tiny nearly went to the hospital after–” 

 

“Fine. They want to be babied, I’ll treat them like infants. I can be the softest, most personable member of this team–” 

 

“How are you so good with the constituents and so terrible with everyone else?” Tamara wonders, poking her head around the corner. “Neal, you ready for some classical music? We’re taking Robin with us so he can mingle. Regina, I think Emma’s getting restless.” She glances to her right. “She’s doing pull-ups on Mulan’s contraption.” 

 

Regina swallows, her voice unsteady. “Great. Insufferable  _ and  _ sweaty.” She marches from the office with her head held high, ignoring the way Tamara claps her on the back as she stalks into the main room.

 

There’s a tiny supply closet on the right of the room, one little corner for all their office supplies and campaign paraphernalia. Mulan had put a pull-up bar on its doorway–  _ for everyone’s use _ , she’d said, and Sabine had nearly laughed her out of the office and offered her a beignet. 

 

Emma is pulling herself up when Regina emerges, and Regina gapes for a moment. Her arms are bare, impressively muscular as they flex, and her tank top is riding up to expose a toned abdomen. Regina cranes her neck to see it. It’s… _ obscene _ , really, how toned that patch of skin is. Almost as obscene as the grunt Emma lets out as she strains, pulling herself up, and then drops to the ground with a huff. “There you are. Did you switch your partner?” she says, and then blinks. “What?” 

 

Regina shakes herself out of a brief haze. “No,” she says sharply. “I’m still stuck with you.” 

 

“Tragic,” Emma says, pulling on her jacket and obscuring those arms from sight again. “Do you think they’ll still have any cake left at the synagogue? Because if we missed the bobka over your whining, I  _ will  _ demand a new partner.” 

 

“ _ Whining– _ how  _ dare _ you,” Regina sputters, and Emma tosses her shampoo-commercial hair over her shoulder and moves to the door.

 

The swagger. When Neal had asked for the things she hates about Emma, she’d forgotten to list the swagger.

 

The swagger isn’t gone until they’re chatting with townspeople over cake, discussing public school funding and concerns about crime. Emma can take some time to warm up to people, but once she’s comfortable, she has a quality that brings them in, that makes them more likely to listen. “I know Blanchard has made school funding the centerpiece of her campaign,” Emma says, hopping up onto a table. “But that’s just sticking a Band-Aid on the issue, right, Regina?” 

 

“Absolutely,” Regina agrees. She has not touched the cake yet. Emma is on her third piece, which makes that stretch of toned stomach even more likely to have been some fever dream of Regina’s, not that she  _ dreams  _ about  _ Emma _ . “A schoolteacher is going to see the issue as school-related when it’s actually a problem of how Storybrooke is handling its taxes altogether. We need more efficient leaders who understand how to make sure that our money is going to the people.” 

 

A woman’s brow furrows. “And where are you going to take it away from to put it into the schools?” she demands. “How are we supposed to believe that your  _ team _ –” She jabs a finger at Emma. “–Won’t pocket it?” 

 

This happens occasionally, though less often as the days pass. Too many people have kept up with the local news and know Emma’s face by now, and Emma has a tendency to react badly to those accusations. She’s setting down her cake now, her eyes darkening, and she says, “Hey, lady–” 

 

“Emma’s actions as a minor have no bearing on the campaign,” Regina says pleasantly, cutting Emma off before she starts a fight. “She was hired for this campaign because she’s a hard worker with good ideas. She’s been invaluable to the campaign because she understands a lot of the teenagers in this town who feel as though they have no choices.” She offers Emma a tight smile. “And that’s something we want to fix. Storybrooke is a beautiful town that has lost its way.” 

 

“Sounds like you’re making excuses for her,” someone else says, eyeing Emma critically. Regina recognizes him vaguely, one of Mother’s country clubgoers. “Once a thief, always a thief. I hope you’ve been keeping an eye on your campaign coffers. I wouldn’t donate if I knew that someone like  _ that  _ was going to be handling my money.” 

 

Emma’s lips are pressed together, a painful smile splitting her face as she struggles not to glower at the man. Regina reaches out to her, an unconscious hand closing around her wrist, and Emma inhales again, rough and shaky as she struggles to keep her cool. “I suppose you’re entitled to your opinion,” Regina says coolly. “There have been no complaints concerning Emma’s integrity from the team, and I trust her fully.” 

 

“You’re so much nicer to me when voters are watching,” Emma murmurs in her ear once the man marches off in a huff. “I should register as a resident here. You’d probably bring me coffee and beignets every morning.” 

 

“You don’t even have your own apartment,” Regina mutters back, scoffing. “The day you become a voter in this town is the day I leave forever.” 

 

Emma snorts. “Sure, it is. You’re so transparent.” 

 

“Oh, aren’t you two from the Locksley campaign?” someone asks from behind them. “You were here last week, too.” 

 

Regina will never get tired of being  _ known,  _ of the Storybrooke townspeople recognizing the campaign and remembering it from week to week. “That’s right,” she says, shifting around. “Ms. Nolan, wasn’t it?” Ruth Nolan, who is– rather unfortunately– both Blanchard’s mother-in-law and the events coordinator at the synagogue. She hadn’t sent them off last week, so Regina plows on. “Nice to see you again,” she says, offering her a winning smile.

 

Ruth smiles back at them. “I just wanted to say how brave I think you two are,” she says. “It can’t always be easy to stand up for who you are in a town like Storybrooke, but I want you to know that I think you’re wonderful.” 

 

“Thanks,” Emma says, brow furrowed. “It’s really been great working on the Locksley campaign,” she starts, and Ruth nods.

 

“Good,” she says. “It’s important for our leaders to normalize this sort of thing. I know people around here can be small-minded, but the important thing is to hold onto that love you have for each other and remember that it’ll make it all worth it.” She beams, reaching out to squeeze Regina’s free hand. 

 

Regina’s…free hand, because her other is still on Emma’s wrist, hanging loosely there. She’s suddenly aware that they’ve been standing too close while they’d been whispering to each other, that she can feel Emma’s breath against the shell of her ear, that–  _ oh, god _ , Ruth thinks–

 

Emma comes to the same realization as Regina an instant later. “What?” she sputters, letting out a choked laugh. “Oh, my god. No. We’re not– this wasn’t– we’re  _ straight _ !” she says, and Regina drops Emma’s wrist as though she’s been burned. “We don’t even like each other! Oh, god– no offense,” she says, waving vaguely at the stained glass windows displaying Biblical scenes. “No love here. None at all.” 

 

Regina’s mood is taking a foul turn, and she jerks away from Emma as Emma says, “I mean, we do support– we have lesbians on the team, you know.” She’s stumbling over her own words, sounding so deeply uncomfortable that Regina would cringe if she weren’t so angry. She doesn’t know about  _ what _ . Maybe just from Emma’s sheer discomfort with the situation, shaking her head wildly as Ruth looks on. Maybe from Emma’s swift  _ we’re straight! _ , which bothers her on more levels than she dares examine. 

 

She says sharply, “It’s time for us to go. I’m sorry we bothered you, Ms. Nolan.” The polished smile pops back onto her face, and Ruth watches them, brow furrowed, as Regina turns a glare on Emma. “ _ Come _ ,” she orders, and Emma meekly follows.

 

“I was just surprised,” Emma says when they’re outside, breathing in fresh air that feels a little less stifling. “No one has ever called me  _ gay  _ before.” 

 

Regina arches an eyebrow. “Never?” Emma stares blankly at her. Regina gestures at Emma’s outfit. “With that getup? With the– with the way you walk? With the way you eyeball Ruby when she’s wearing those hot pants–” 

 

“What do any of those have to do with– am I not allowed to  _ look  _ at people without being gay? Why are you even looking at me when I’m looking at anyone?” Emma says, defensive. “Maybe you’re the lesbian!”

 

Regina bites her lip, frustrated and wounded. “Fuck  _ off _ ,” she says, and she storms ahead of her toward the car, angry tears stinging at her eyes. God, being around Emma Swan sometimes makes her feel like a child, squabbling in a playground and getting hurt when she shouldn’t care at all. Emma is an ignorant  _ fool _ , and she doesn’t deserve to be entrusted with anything, the campaign or Regina’s brother or…or…

 

She’s already starting the car when Emma slides inside, her face hard and stubborn as she stares straight ahead. “Any more locations today?” she says tightly. 

 

“One park. We can skip it.” 

 

“Good. I’m done.” As though  _ she’s  _ the injured party, because Regina had had the audacity to point out the obvious. Regina’s teeth are jammed together, so tightly that she thinks the muscles clenching her jawbone might cramp. She is  _ not  _ going out with Emma Swan again, regardless of what Neal says.

 

They drive in silence, Regina taking turns a little too sharply and scraping against the curb when she parks, and then she shuts off the car and they sit in silence for another protracted moment. Emma says suddenly, the stubbornness fading into embarrassment, “Look–” 

 

Regina’s phone rings and she snatches it up, grateful to avoid another conversation with Emma. “Mills.” 

 

The voice on the other line is tinny but clear, and Regina forgets everything that had transpired that day in an instant. “I don’t know,” she says, leaning back in the seat and keeping her voice casual. “We have a pretty tight schedule…I see. I see.” 

 

Emma is watching her, eyes wide as she picks out the excitement that Regina is trying and failing to tamp down. “I’ll have to get back to you,” Regina says, and she hangs up, checks the phone twice to make sure that it’s really hung up, and then lets out a breath that might be a tiny bit of a scream. 

 

“What is it?” Emma demands, eyes trained on her, and Emma might be  _ terrible  _ but this is more her accomplishment than anyone else’s, and Regina can’t stay too angry. “What happened?” 

 

“What  _ happened _ ,” Regina says grandly, her lips curling into a victorious smile, “Is Anna Arendelle.” 

 

Emma looks blank. “The one with the braids from the local news? What, did she want a list of all the people I brawled with in Tallahassee?” 

 

“She wants a  _ debate _ . Mary Margaret Blanchard and Robin, televised, hosted by the news station. And she wants to do a feature with us afterward, talking about our journey to this point.”  _ You, Locksley, Neal and the Swan girl _ , she’d said, though Regina isn’t fool enough to agree to let Emma go onto the show to be interrogated. Emma will insist anyway, she’s sure.

 

Emma seizes her arm, laughs disbelievingly, a stunning smile spreading across her face. “We did it.” 

 

“We did,” Regina agrees.

 

“We changed the narrative. We have the media coming  _ to  _ us. We  _ did it _ ,” Emma says again, awestruck. “Regina, we’re going to the primaries. We’re going to  _ win  _ this. We’re going to change Storybrooke.” Her eyes are shining, her face bright and beautiful, and Regina feels another spike of irrational resentment even through her euphoria.

 

With Emma, though, it’s plenty easy to find some rational resentment there instead. “And here you thought that all of this was a joke,” she shoots back, remembering the words that had stung so much on Emma’s first day. She wonders sometimes if Emma still feels that way, if she’s still sure that this campaign will end before her relationship falls apart. She wonders sometimes if Emma is only doing her job or if she  _ cares _ , and she wonders why it’s important to her that it’s the latter.

 

Emma grimaces, but the elated mood in the car doesn’t change. “See, that’s the difference between us,” Emma says, never one to miss a jab. “I can apologize when I’m wrong. I’m sorry I ever said that. This is…we’re doing something  _ important  _ here, and I should never have said otherwise.” She pauses, still shamefaced. “And I’m sorry about…whatever that was, earlier. It was dumb and I upset you and I…” She smiles, wry. “I’d rather provoke you when you can take it,” she admits, and Regina is warm again, the hurt fading away and leaving only a hollow ache in its stead.

 

There’s an air of expectancy in the car, a pregnant pause, and Emma says, “You know, if you did want to apologize, too, this would be the perfect time–” 

 

“I have nothing to apologize for,” Regina says, superior, and Emma rolls her eyes as she climbs out of the car. 

 

“Never change, I guess,” Emma says with a sigh, and she pulls the door to the campaign office open for Regina to stride through, a smile still dancing at the edges of her lips.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit early, with much gratitude to y'all for all of your enthusiasm and feedback. <3 
> 
> Debates! Thunderstorms! Backstory! A little smudge of lipstick! Read on for all of that and more! Also please be aware that there are minor mentions of past racism, homophobia, and suicide in this chapter.

**MAY 15**

_ 25 Days Until the Primary _

 

Emma insists, of  _ course _ . “I’m not going to let them sit around and talk about me without  _ being _ there,” she says hotly when Regina suggests that she sit their feature out. “And they asked me! They want me there, too!”

 

Regina still looks dubious. “I just think you might lack some…well, finesse. Especially in a situation like this where you’re on the defensive.” 

 

“Em’s a great sweet-talker,” Neal says loyally, grinning at her. Emma smiles back, a little more tersely than might have been expected. Things between them are still tense, or as tense as they can be. Neal doesn’t have the patience for fights, long and angry, and so their conflict had petered out with a beignet on her desk as a peace offering and Neal pretending as though none of it had ever happened. Emma is conflict-avoidant enough that she isn’t going to pursue it, and so they’re in a kind of limbo now, drifting around each other while keeping it cordial. 

 

Better limbo than endless resentment, she supposes, though they feel pretty similar sometimes. 

 

She turns back to Regina, if only to look away from Neal. “Give me a chance,” she says, her voice low and earnest. “Let me  _ try _ .” 

 

And that’s another little twist that she’s discovered. For all her casual nastiness and disdain for Emma, Regina is kind of a soft touch in the face of Emma’s vulnerability. It hasn’t always been this way, but Regina folds today, again, like some wondrous miracle. “Okay,” Regina mutters. “But I swear, if you lose us this election– it’s  _ twenty-five days until the primary _ –” She breathes out a shuddering sigh.

 

Twenty-five days. It feels like just weeks ago that she’d joined the team, that she’d launched herself into this campaign and done what she could to help. Now it’s nearly the primary, the hurdle that will make it clear whether or not they’re still in the race, and their polling numbers are…moderate. Mary Margaret has a ten-point lead, but they aren’t down at two percent anymore, either. People know them– know Mary Margaret, too, and prefer her, but they’re listening to Robin now. They’re listening to all of them, and they’re reserving their judgment for now.

 

In twenty-five days, the campaign is going to find out if the people are willing to take a chance on them. And this debate and the feature afterward might make or break their campaign.

 

It’s all riding on Robin, and Regina and Tamara spend hours with him, coaching him through the process. Emma watches on one occasion, sees him stumbling over policies that he doesn’t quite grasp while Tamara challenges him easily, and she feels a flicker of doubt. Regina displays no such doubt. She’s patient with him, ready to go over it again and again until he has a better response. 

 

“Did you take something?” Emma mutters in her ear once. She’s sitting in the office, cross-legged on a chair while Robin reviews his talking points again with Regina. “How are you not losing it with him–” 

 

Regina gives her a dark look. “I’m a semi-functional adult,” she says. “We don’t all need medical help just to develop maturity.” 

 

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean  _ medical _ –” Emma says, at which point she’s promptly expelled from the office and left laughing at Regina through the window on the door.

 

Regina gives her a cold look, and returns to Robin, who obligingly moves his seat up so he’s tucked in beside Regina, a friendly hand on her back. Regina stands abruptly, shifting to stand on the other side of the desk, a careful smile on her face as she continues.

 

_ That _ stops Emma’s laughter. “Hey, Tamara?” she calls across campaign headquarters. “You going back in there? I think Regina might be close to the end of her rope.” 

 

Tamara grimaces. “I’m already off my rope. I’m already freefalling thirty feet into the abyss over here,” she says, making a face, but she picks up her coffee and drags her feet back into the office.

 

And Robin gets better, bit by bit, until Emma can feel her confidence beginning to grow again. They’re narrowing the gap now, just six points behind Mary Margaret, and the debate is imminent.

 

“It’s supposed to storm tomorrow,” Regina reminds her on the night of May 19, standing in front of her cubicle with stiff shoulders and a perpetual look of trepidation on her face. “Don’t worry about your makeup. We’ll have someone there to take care of it. Just try to cover your hair so you don’t look like a drowned rat on local television.” 

 

Emma bobs her head. Regina eyes her suspiciously. “Do you have a hat? A raincoat?” 

 

“I can stick my jacket over my head for ten seconds. Or use an  _ umbrella _ –” Regina is already stalking away to the coat closet, and Emma sighs. “Regina, can you just–” 

 

“Wear this.” Regina thrusts a coat into her hands. It’s hers, fitted and sleek and probably more money than Emma’s made in months, and Emma stares blankly at it. “Wear it,” Regina repeats, glaring at her, and Emma puts it on. “Good.” 

 

She turns around to address the rest of the office. “Tamara, you’re going to watch the debate. Jacinda, monitor social media during. Ruby, I want you to come with us and keep an eye on the audience. Sabine–” 

 

“Swap Ruby out for yourself, and we’d have the whitest campaign delegation to ever grace this room,” Sabine says, smirking. 

 

It strikes a chord in Regina, probably much harder than Sabine had intended it, and Regina is suddenly silenced, her eyes falling to the ground. It’s Marian who speaks up, regretful but firm. “We’ve talked about this, Sabine. You know this only works this way.”

 

Sabine meets her gaze, lips thinning. “And you know I don’t agree with that,” she says, but she sounds perturbed instead of adversarial. She holds Marian’s gaze for a long moment, and then she sighs and turns back to Regina. “What do I do?” 

 

“What was that all about?” Emma asks when they’re in the car later, driving through the early drizzle of the incoming storm. 

 

Neal shrugs, leaning back in the passenger seat. “Old argument,” he says. “Sabine doesn’t love that the faces of a progressive campaign are two white guys.” 

 

_ You know this only works this way _ . “What do you think?” Emma asks curiously, turning to face him at a stop sign.

 

Neal lifts his shoulders again. “I think, as one of said white guys, I should shut my mouth and do whatever the experts tell me to,” he says, offering her a sheepish grin. “Storybrooke might surprise us. Then again, I spent an entire morning once scrubbing  _ GO BACK TO MEXICO _ off of Regina’s car when she ran for school council her junior year in high school, so…you know. Storybrooke is Storybrooke.” 

 

“Yeah.” She doesn’t have any experience with  _ that _ , of course, but she’s gone with Neal to the country club a few times to get out the vote, had seen the gaggle of rich white men who run this town with their picture-perfect trophy wives and the teenagers who’d bumped into her until her water had sloshed all over her and swaggered back to their friends to snicker. They aren’t winning many votes on that side of town, and Regina is already sure that their donations are going to sputter and cease altogether once Mary Margaret is out of the race. “Storybrooke is Storybrooke.” 

 

She can understand why, she thinks, Regina would have grown up determined to change it.

 

The morning of the twentieth is so dark and downcast that no light comes into the bedroom when she awakens. She dresses carefully in the Regina-approved clothes for today, a shirt from Regina’s closet and a pair of dark jeans. Regina had nixed them at first, and then she’d tried them on to prove that it would be a good look and Regina had fallen very silent. “It’ll do,” she’d said finally in that strangled voice that means that Emma had won one of their matches, and Emma had felt that hot flash of victory.

 

She could get addicted to it, she muses, tugging on the jeans. Victory over Regina comes with its own rush, and  _ victory _ can be anything from silencing Regina once in a while to getting through to her. Regina isn’t someone she  _ likes _ , but Emma finds that regardless, it’s those moments where Regina almost seems to like her that she craves.

 

Neal would be  _ so  _ smug if he knew. 

 

They eat breakfast in silence, though it’s more comfortable than it’s been for a while. “You ready for this?” Neal asks her. 

 

She nods. “I avoid all mentions of your involvement with the watches,” she says, as though by rote. She’s had her own training for this, from an apologetic Regina.  _ We can’t have any more drama right now _ , she’d said.  _ We can’t have Locksley fatigue. We just have to shut this down by showing that you’re…  _ and her eyes had trailed over Emma once, sharp and assessing.  _ Acceptable _ . 

 

“I don’t mention my age. If they bring it up, I say we were friends, nothing more. Nothing that shifts blame or distracts from the opponent. I focus on coming here and joining the campaign.” She quashes the bitterness. There’s no time for that now, even if Neal is looking at her with that puppy-dog nervous face that means he knows it’s fucked up that it’s going to have to go like this.

 

She doesn’t mind, exactly. She’d rather leverage her past into a victory in the primaries, anyway. She just wants… 

 

She sighs and slides on Regina’s coat. It’s a near-perfect fit, and when she pulls up the hood, she can smell Regina’s shampoo on it. She inhales once, long and deep, before she realizes what she’s doing and scowls at herself. “Let’s go,” she says, heading for the car without another word, and Neal follows without a word.

 

He’s oddly silent for the rest of the day, even after they get to the studio in the early evening. He lurks in the background while Emma has her makeup done and Regina hovers over Robin and over her with equal attention. The storm is raging outside, thunder crashing over their heads and lightning illuminating the windows. “Our studio is soundproof,” Anna Arendelle assures them brightly. “And we have a backup generator that will keep things running when the power goes out.” 

 

“ _ When _ ?” Regina echoes.

 

“This is the tallest building in Storybrooke– well, aside from the library,” Anna points out. “We lose power at least a few times a season. The studio is fine, though.” She gestures vaguely to the right. “Just avoid the elevator. The left side of the building stays powered. You won’t even know we’ve had an outage.” 

 

Emma has already tuned her out, distracted by Regina’s eyes on her from where her own makeup is being done. Regina looks stunning with or without makeup, even the heavy makeup for the cameras. Emma…not so much. “Is my makeup supposed to be so…bright?” she asks, squinting into the mirror. “I look like a totally different person.” 

 

Neal steps into her line of sight, tilting his head to assess her face. “I think you look great,” he says.

 

Emma rolls her eyes. “You might be a tiny bit biased.” But she smiles, tentative, and he smiles back. “Thanks, though.” 

 

“Yeah.” He sticks his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth a little as though he’s trying to work himself up to something. She waits, uncertain, and he says, “I’m sorry about…you know. Everything. Dragging you into my shit all these times.” He chews on his lip and she watches him, nausea still thrumming in her stomach. “And running off when I did. I thought I was doing the right thing, but now I wonder if I was just making excuses for being an asshole.” 

 

Emma exhales. The nausea still sits in the pit of her stomach, but it feels more manageable now, more like closure. “Thanks,” she says, and she can’t find anything else to say. 

 

Neal isn’t done, though. “I’m going to do right by you from now on,” he says, gripping her hand in his. “I promise you that. I’m– whatever happens, I’m going to do right by you.” He leans in for a kiss, and she holds up a hand.

 

“My makeup,” she reminds him, but she gives him a small smile to lighten the blow. “I still don’t really  _ like _ it, but I don’t think you should show up onscreen with lips this pink, either.” 

 

Neal snorts. “Fair enough. Why don’t I pass you over to someone who knows this stuff?” He shifts away, and Regina is very suddenly in his place. 

 

The makeup artist hadn’t screwed up  _ her  _ mouth. She has deep wine-colored lips today, plump and intoxicating, drawing out smokey eyes and the tinge of color on her cheeks. Emma stares up at her, a little awestruck, and she says, “You…uh.” 

 

“I wanted you a little more natural than this,” Regina murmurs, her eyes skimming over Emma’s face. “Hm.” She touches Emma’s lips, and Emma’s mind goes blissfully blank for a moment, her eyes fixed only on Regina’s pursed red lips and her dark, dark eyes. Regina is gone an instant later, then back, a tissue in her hand, and then her fingers are back on Emma’s lips.

 

She dabs at her lipstick, her fingers grazing Emma’s lips, and Emma shivers. “Hold on,” Regina murmurs, her gaze flickering to Emma’s. Emma stands frozen within it, exhaling little breaths that tickle across Regina’s fingers, and Regina dabs for another moment before she nods. “There,” she whispers, satisfied, and her free hand moves to Emma’s hair, to fluff it out and pat some down in front of her shoulder. “Now you’re perfect.” 

 

Emma is flushed with the heat of the room, with the bright lights and with Regina standing so close. She swallows, attempting and failing to clear her throat, and she blinks a few times and says, “You look–” 

 

“You all look so wonderful!” comes a voice from the doorway, and Regina whips around so quickly that she nearly bangs Emma back against the wall. Mary Margaret Blanchard is beaming at them, eyes flickering from Robin to Regina to Emma with equal enthusiasm. “This is going to be quite the debate. I hope Regina told you that I was her debate team coach back in high school.” She laughs gaily. 

 

She’s come with Anna Arendelle, who had stepped out to get the cameraman and document their meeting. Robin rises from where he’s been sitting with Marian, a gracious smile on his face. “She didn’t mention it,” he admits. “But she’s certainly prepared me for the worst.” 

 

“That’s Regina,” Mary Margaret says, beaming at Regina. Regina doesn’t smile back. Mary Margaret doesn’t take her cue. She swoops forward, arms outstretched for a hug. “Oh, Regina, doesn’t this bring back old memories? Though I guess we were always–”

 

“Don’t  _ touch  _ me,” Regina spits out, sideswiping Mary Margaret’s embrace. 

 

Anna says to the cameraman in a low voice, “Oh, get this. Are you getting this?” 

 

“ _ Regina _ ,” Emma says, nodding with her teeth gritted at the camera.

 

Regina ignores her. Regina snarls at Mary Margaret, her eyes flashing, “Get the hell away from me.” 

 

Mary Margaret looks wounded. “Regina, isn’t it time we moved on? You know we’re all fighting for the same things here. I only want–” She reaches for Regina again.

 

Regina slaps her hand away, hard enough that there’s a  _ smack _ that resounds through the room. “I said,  _ get the hell away from me _ ,” she hisses, heedless of the camera and Neal saying her name. “I don’t want to  _ move on _ . I want you to lose this race and never find yourself in a position of power ever again.” 

 

“Regina!” Emma says finally, alarmed. The cameras are trained on her, are picking up whatever petty nastiness that Mary Margaret brings out in Regina, and they’re going to compromise their entire campaign before the debate even begins. Regina ignores her, and Emma grabs her arm, yanking her away from the group.

 

“Follow them,” Anna says enthusiastically, and Emma gives her a dark look and drags Regina with her, away from the prep room.

 

“What the hell?” she demands when they’re outside of it, in the hallway. A roar of thunder punctuates her question. “Can you try to act like a regular human around Mary Margaret for a  _ split second _ ?” 

 

Regina sneers at her. “Oh, please. Just because I don’t fawn all over her like you do whenever you see her– as if she isn’t trying to poach you–” 

 

“She is! I know she is! She tried and I said no, so can you please just–” Emma throws up her hands. “I don’t know what issue you have with her, but she’s  _ trying _ , and now we look like dicks–” 

 

Regina whirls around and storms away, toward the elevator to downstairs. “I assure you, Ms. Swan, I don’t give a damn about optics when it comes to  _ her _ . You can go smooth things over with her. I’m going to the studio for the part of today that actually matters.” 

 

The elevator chimes and she steps inside, glaring back at Emma. “Oh, you are not getting out of this by running off,” Emma snaps, fed up as she storms into the elevator after her and jams the button to descend. “You’ve been acting like a child around Mary Margaret from the start. I don’t care if she flunked you or something, we have to–” 

 

There’s a loud crash outside, the heartstopping sound of lightning nearby, and they’re abruptly enveloped in darkness. The elevator shudders to a sudden halt. Emma freezes, turning around to a baleful Regina. “Regina,” she says, squinting at her in the dark. “What did Anna say about the elevators, again?”

 

Regina shifts around in the darkness, and then her phone’s flashlight goes on. “Something about a backup generator,” she says, aiming her phone at the elevator keypad. “It should be working on the elevator. There are safety regulations about this kind of thing.” 

 

Emma glances at her own phone. “No service,” she says, staring at the screen for a moment. “What about the help button?” 

 

Regina jams her finger into it. “Nothing.” 

 

“They’ll realize we’re gone eventually,” Emma says, biting her lip. “They know that these elevators do this. HEY!” she shouts, pressing up against the door. “HEY, WE’RE IN HERE! HELP!” 

 

Nothing. The sounds echo through the elevator as Emma pounds at the door, Regina hitting the help button over and over again.

 

Very suddenly, a light flickers on, dimmer than before. “That must be the backup generator,” Regina says, frowning. “We’re still not moving. All the power must go to keeping the studio running.” She shakes her head, and then she’s shouting, too. “ANYONE? HELP! HELP!” 

 

They shout together, bang uselessly at the doors as Emma curses them and Regina curses Mary Margaret– “Can you  _ shut up _ already?” Emma finally snaps, exasperated. “This is what got us into this mess in the first place! You talk and talk about optics but you don’t give a damn when you’re the one screwing it up for us, do you?” 

 

Regina glowers at her with the force of an angry wolf, and Emma wonders for a moment if Regina might try to tear her apart right now, if they might just lose it in a stuck elevator and be left here to bleed out by the time Neal finds them. 

 

But instead, Regina lets out a long, wet sigh, and sinks to the floor of the elevator, suddenly subdued. “Mary Margaret Blanchard outed me to my mother,” she says, and Emma drops to the floor ungraciously with a thump.

 

“Outed?” Emma repeats, her brow crinkling. “Like…like she exposed–” 

 

Regina looks at her again, long and wary, and Emma feels all the air come out of her in a whoosh. “Oh,” she says, and her heart starts pounding in understanding, her throat stopping up, a faint panic firing adrenaline through her body.  _ Outed _ , like  _ that _ . Regina is… 

 

She stares at Regina, maps out the lines of her jaw, the press of her lips, the curves of her body, and she can’t stop herself from imagining Regina in the embrace of a woman. She imagines Regina’s wine-colored lips on another woman’s lips, imagines her stroking a lover’s hair and smiling at her with those dark eyes, imagines hands caressing Regina’s breasts and ass. 

 

Emma breathes rapidly, quivers, warm and overwhelmed, and she gulps and feels quiet fear that she can’t name.

 

* * *

 

“That’s cool,” Emma says, rushing over her own words. “I mean, it’s great if you’re– if you have– if you like–” She’s uncomfortable, just as she always is when this comes up, and Regina had known that she would be. The others have always been careful about gossiping about Regina, about spreading information about her private life that she doesn’t volunteer, and the ones who know about Regina’s sexuality have had the presence of mind to keep it quiet.

 

“I’m a lesbian, Emma,” Regina says wearily. “You can say it. You said it before, remember?” Emma had said it like an accusation, awkward and without any meaning behind it, and it had driven Regina nearly to tears. Today, she doesn’t know what Emma’s tactlessness will do to her. 

 

Emma nods, looking faint. “So you aren’t dating that guy from the paper?” Regina shakes her head. “Oh. Okay. Cool. That’s– cool.” She takes in a ragged breath, then her head jerks up. “Mary Margaret  _ what _ ?” 

 

She thinks she might have preferred Emma’s stumbling discomfort to this part of the conversation. “My mother had very specific plans for me,” Regina says. “I was to graduate from high school, go to college, go to law school. Find an acceptable boyfriend and marry him after law school. Get involved in politics, run for governor, run for senator. Become president.” She recites the list with the familiar sensation of failure, of reminder that she’s  _ off schedule _ and she’s never going to please Mother.

 

“That’s fucked up,” Emma says, staring. “She told you that in  _ high school _ ?” 

 

Regina barks out a laugh. “She used to read me her forty-year plan as a bedtime story when I was in preschool. In our nursery yearbook, I said that I wanted to grow up to be a firefighter, and she was horrified. By Pre-K, I had the right answer.” Emma is still staring at her in horror, her face illuminated by the dim elevator lights. There’s still a tiny smudge of lipstick near the corner of her mouth, and Regina’s eyes linger on it unconsciously until she pulls herself away. “You can imagine how worried I was when I realized how little boys interested me.”

 

She’d been sixteen then. She’d gone to Neal’s apartment nearly every weekend, had gone to clubs and tried desperately to dance with boys, to kiss boys, to feel  _ something  _ for them until she’d been crying in frustration, curled up on Tamara’s bed and telling her everything. “I met Daniela when I was sixteen. My parents owned this riding school on the edge of town– the one connected with the country club?” 

 

Emma lets out a strangled laugh. “Of course they did,” she says, but it’s only lightly mocking, only slightly argumentative. She’s listening, her fingers so tight around her phone that her knuckles are turning white. “Did she ride there, too?” 

 

Regina shakes her head. “She worked there. She wasn’t from our side of town. Too brown, too poor, too kind.” She can feel the old, raw pain stinging at her heart even now at the memory of Daniela, of everything that had followed. “I hated being gay so much. I  _ hated _ it,” she says, remembering self-loathing with restrained fury, and she watches Emma, watches the eyes fixed on her with silent attention. She hasn’t told this story in detail to anyone but Marian. She doesn’t know why it is now that it feels so natural admitting it to Emma Swan. “I knew it was going to ruin my life. But with Daniela, I felt like…like maybe it was worth it.” 

 

Emma smiles, her eyes wide and teary and bright, and Regina wants to weep. “That’s…” She clears her throat. “Mary Margaret?” 

 

“Mary Margaret was my teacher. My debate coach, my favorite Literature teacher, my college advisor.” She leans back against the wall, blinks desperately and squeezes her eyes shut to avoid ruining her makeup. “I trusted her. I needed help and Neal was away and I didn’t know how my father would take it– he’s always been so traditional–” 

 

Emma has already caught on. “God,” she breathes. “She told your mother.” 

 

“I didn’t know,” Regina murmurs. “I had…I had plans. Daniela and I were going to run away together after I graduated, escape from Mother and finally be free to live my own life. I went down to the stables on the afternoon after I graduated with a bag packed, and found Daniela gone. Completely gone, like she had never been there, no forwarding address and all her social media deleted.” She had been bewildered at first, then heartbroken, certain that Daniela had decided that she didn’t want Regina after all. She’d cried in the stables for hours before she’d gone home.

 

And that had been only the start, she’d discovered. She’d walked into the living room and found Mother seated on the couch, that victorious smile on her lips. “She gave me one choice. She had some…some  _ suitable _ man for me all lined up in some kind of twisted arranged marriage.” She shakes, remembering it, the man beside Mother who’d been twice her age and a seasoned politician, listening to Mother’s ultimatum with only bored interest. Regina had refused, horrified. Mother hadn’t batted an eyelash before she’d informed Regina that her credit cards and phone plan had been canceled, that her college tuition would go unpaid, that she was no longer welcome in the house. 

 

“So I left. I’ve never been so grateful that my parents are divorced,” Regina says wryly, remembering the days before she’d gone, sleepwalking through Marian’s house. “And  _ Mary Margaret Blanchard _ had the temerity to send me a long letter justifying all of it as though it had been my own fault for not being open with my mother from the start. Mary Margaret–” She bites back her first response and tries again, bitter and heartsick. “Mary Margaret Blanchard believes only in her own righteousness, in her own justification, and she would hurt and hurt and hurt this town out of sheer selfishness and play the victim. Mary Margaret Blanchard  _ ruined my life _ , so before you tell me to be  _ polite _ to her–” 

 

It finally sinks in what she’d done in a righteous fury upstairs, what she’d done on  _ camera _ , and Regina’s eyes widen in new despair.

 

Emma is quiet beside her. “I’m sorry,” she says at last, in the wake of Regina’s gripped horror. “I didn’t know.”

 

“I didn’t expect you to,” Regina says, and grudgingly, her heart skipping a beat, admits, “I shouldn’t have reacted like that, anyway. It wasn’t good for the campaign.” 

 

“I get it,” Emma says, and she offers Regina a rueful smile, leaning back against the elevator wall. “She still thinks she was right, doesn’t she?” 

 

Regina scoffs. “She doesn’t know what happened next. Mother told everyone that I was taking a gap year.” She considers. “Well, my sister did plant some weed in her supplies closet and get her put on probation, so she must have some idea that it wasn’t sunshine and roses.” She’s smiling to herself at the memory, fiercely smug.

 

Emma doesn’t share her smile.“I can’t imagine– your own mother just  _ kicked you out _ . What the fuck,” Emma says, her fingers digging into her knees. “What the fuck kind of mother–” She shakes her head. “I’ve been kicked out of my fair share of houses, but I wasn’t their  _ kid _ .” 

 

“You were in the foster system.” She’d known it from the background check, though she hadn’t found out very much. She’d watched every interview on the local news during their big scandal at first, but they’d been such absurd allegations, adults who’d shown no sign of shame at their ridiculous slander, that she’d been too infuriated to keep watching.

 

Emma bobs her head. “Left on the side of the road as an infant. I was fostered by a family until I was three, but then they had their own kid and they sent me back. I grew up pretty screwed up.” She looks pensive, a little embarrassed, and Regina shuffles over a bit until they’re sitting closer. It seems as though the thing to do at the time. 

 

“There was this one foster mom…she was the only one who seemed to really care about me. I don’t know. All of my best memories are of being thirteen in her house one winter, playing in the snow with her and laughing. She was going to adopt me.” A wavering smile comes to her face, one Regina’s never seen before. It holds more pain than any of Emma’s tears do, and it sears a permanent mark into Regina’s heart. “And then she…they never really told me what happened, but I think she killed herself. Right before the papers were signed.” 

 

The smile fades, becomes a neutral expression. “Then I got too old to ever have a family, and I guess I got angry. I ran away a few times, until…well, you know.” She waves vaguely. “I’ve never really had a home. I’ve barely ever stayed in the same place for this long.” She says it all matter-of-factly, as though it’s been far too long for her to care about it, but Regina hears the telltale tremble beneath her words, the way her knees are pulled further into her arms until she shrinks smaller and smaller.

 

And they hate each other, but Regina finds herself saying, “Well, you’re not going anywhere now. You’re needed here,” as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world, because it is. She shivers with the admission, as though she’s already given too much away to Emma Swan, as though every grudging remark is capitulation.

 

Emma gives her a strained, watery smile. “I’ve never been needed before,” she says. “Is it always this stressful?” 

 

Regina has been needed– by her mother, to be the person she was born to be. By Neal, to take care of him when he doesn’t take care of himself. By all the people around her to be the person they expect her to be, composed and hard as nails and victorious. “In my experience,” she says, leaning back against the wall to catch Emma’s gaze. “Yes, usually. But I think we might be outliers.” 

 

Emma laughs a shuddering laugh. “I think it’s better this way. Before, I was…I don’t know,” she says, and her eyes are still fixed on Regina’s, that grey-green stare as captivating as it is commanding. “I guess I was never really anyone. I kind of floated through life without anyone seeing me.”

 

“I used to want to disappear,” Regina murmurs, a whispered admission in the silence of the elevator. “Just like that.” 

 

Emma shakes her head. “You couldn’t,” she says, and it feels like a pronouncement on her lips, like an affirmation instead of the prison it once had been. “You’re too…” She reaches out, grazing Regina’s cheek with her fingers for an instant and then dropping her hand, cheeks flushed. “No one would forget you.”

 

Regina raises her eyebrows. “Is that a compliment?”

 

Emma smirks, both of them relieved to be back on solid ground for their relationship. “You wish. As if I’d ever say anything positive about  _ you _ .” 

 

“Mutual,” Regina agrees archly. They’re still in position, just a few inches apart at the back of the elevator, their heads resting against the wall and their hair ruined by now.

 

“It’s cool, though,” Emma says suddenly. “That you’re– that you’re gay. I hope you didn’t keep it from me because you thought I couldn’t handle it or– or something–” She’s stumbling over her words, flushing again, and Regina sighs.

 

She chooses her words carefully. “I don’t tell anyone that I’m a lesbian because if it gets out, my mother will disown me again,” she says. “And I know you’re uncomfortable with it, but–” 

 

Emma shakes her head vigorously. “I’m not!” She grimaces. “I mean, I’m not uncomfortable. Not that I’m not comfortable. I didn’t mean–” She presses her hands to her face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I… I’m not a bigot, I swear. It’s just that every time someone brings up liking women, I get all…” She shrugs helplessly. “Tongue-tied. I don’t know.” 

 

Regina eyes her, a few things becoming incrementally more clear to her, if not to Emma herself. “I see,” she says, refusing to dwell on those things.

 

“It’s good that one of us does,” Emma mutters, dropping her hands from her face. “I’ve probably ruined my makeup by now.”

 

Regina examines her. “Not a bit. Well, maybe a bit,” she acknowledges, reaching out to swipe at the little smudge of lipstick. “How is mine?” 

 

Emma is sitting very still, her eyes lidded, and she starts at the question, her fingers moving to touch Regina’s cheek. They trail across the side of her face, tucking back a stray hair, both of them breathing shallowly as they stare at each other. “Beautiful,” Emma murmurs, and they’re so close, on the precipice of something terrifying, something absolutely forbidden, something impossible–

 

The elevator turns back on in a surge of electricity, the main lights blinking back on, and Emma’s hand falls to her side. “Oh,” she says, blinking owlishly. “We’re out.” 

 

The elevator doors ding and open. Ruby is on the other side of them with a security guard, looking very amused. “I thought Emma would be dead by now,” she says as they spill out of the elevator. “You two okay?” 

 

Regina bobs her head. Emma says, cheeks still pink, “For the record, I would have killed her first. Out of self-defense.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ruby says, rolling her eyes. “Come on. We’re being trounced.” 

 

* * *

 

Mary Margaret is in her  _ fucking  _ element. They’ve missed the first half, which Marian whispers to Regina had been  _ mostly dismal _ , and the rest is the kind of nightmare from which Regina had awakened a dozen times last night. Robin stumbles over policies, comes up with half-baked answers that get some cheering but will get very little good press from analysts, and overall sounds inexperienced and pompous, the two things they’d tried most to avoid.

 

“This is a fucking bloodbath,” Neal mutters, one arm around Regina and the other around Emma. “We’re getting  _ destroyed _ . Didn’t you go over all of this with him?” 

 

“He’s choking,” Marian whispers, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is…we’re  _ very  _ fortunate that most of Storybrooke doesn’t watch debates. But we aren’t gaining any fans tonight.” 

 

_ Twenty days until the primaries _ . It rings through Regina’s mind like a warning bell, over and over again. Twenty days to go, and they’ve screwed up their debate. 

 

The interview after is no better, as it turns out. Anna had been downright positive on the phone, but they hadn’t expected Hans to go on the offensive from the start. “So you’re saying that you’re in a relationship with Mr. Gold now, but you weren’t when you were a minor?” he says dubiously. “What, was he waiting for you to be legal?” 

 

Emma’s face is carefully blank. “We reconnected a few months ago when we saw each other again and began a romantic relationship. It’s not exactly rocket science,” she says, her hands digging into her thighs. “Neal helped me out when I was in a bad place, and I was grateful, but I really just saw him as more of a…mentor kind of figure back then.” 

 

It’s unconvincing. Emma isn’t a good liar, which Regina, after a lifetime with Mother, usually counts as a good trait. Today, it is backfiring rather tremendously. “A mentor figure,” Hans repeats. “What are the statutory rape laws in Oregon, Anna?” 

 

Anna looks deeply uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “I don’t know,” she says.

 

“I do,” Hans says brightly. “In fact–” 

 

“Okay,  _ enough _ ,” Regina cuts in, irritated. “Did you bring us here to speculate about Ms. Swan’s sexual activities as a  _ minor _ ? Is that really the direction you want this interview to go?” 

 

Hans blinks at her. Anna says, “No, of course not. Storybrooke really wants to hear about why it is that you hired Emma Swan, knowing her criminal background.” 

 

Regina laughs, polished and cool. “Criminal background is a bit of an overstatement, wouldn’t you say? One of the cornerstones of our campaign is making Storybrooke a better place for our children to grow up in.” She’d practiced this bit in her head, never quite finding the words, but they come now, with the echoes of Emma’s trembling admissions about her childhood in the elevator. “And part of that is looking at the way our sheriff’s department handles teenagers like Emma.”

 

They’d agreed not to go on the offensive with Mary Margaret, not to look like bullies, but Regina can feel the frustration simmering below the surface. “Over the years, I have seen countless teens get off scot-free with nothing more than a warning from Sheriff Nolan. I’ve also seen others sent to juvenile detention, seen them come back angry and hardened, seen them given no real opportunity to ever be rehabilitated. And we all know which children get which treatment.” 

 

“Are you critiquing Sheriff Nolan’s performance?” Hans says, his interest piqued again. He turns to the cameras, an aside. “Sheriff Nolan, of course, is married to Mary Margaret Blanchard.”

 

“I think the sheriff does what he can with the resources he has,” Regina allows. “But we need better resources. We need to make sure that every teen out there who is desperate and afraid has options beyond finding a…a mentor ten years older than them who might not be as well-behaved as Neal Cassidy Gold is.” Neal looks sheepishly at her. Emma is smiling. “And to write off these children is to deny them the opportunity to grow up like Emma has, into someone who wants to make this town a better place. That’s all.” 

 

“Strong words from Locksley’s deputy campaign manager,” Anna announces, turning to Robin. “No one can deny that Storybrooke has struggled with a juvenile delinquency issues in recent times. Tell us, Mr. Locksley, how  _ would  _ you rehabilitate these children?” 

 

Robin is relaxed again, always better when not under stress, and he launches into an explanation of what has been Marian’s pet project from the start. And finally,  _ finally _ one thing is beginning to go right.

 

Only a few more weeks and they’ll know if it has been enough.


	9. Chapter 9

**JUNE 10**

_Primary Day_

 

There’s a lump in her stomach from the moment she awakens that morning, an unconscious knowledge before she processes anything else around her. It takes an extra moment to remember _today, today, primary day_ , and then another moment still before she realizes that the lump in her stomach is, in fact, an elbow jammed into her stomach, and she’s on the couch.

 

She blinks groggily and finds herself staring directly at a mop of brown hair laid against her side, straighter and longer than Neal’s and with a sweet scent to it that Emma knows at once. Regina is curled up against her, the arm that isn’t giving her a hernia from the outside splayed over her stomach, and her face is buried in Emma’s bare arm.

 

She looks almost sweet like this, like a pretty girl whom Emma might admire from afar instead of the power-hungry control freak _menace_ that she likes to play. Not that even Emma’s buying that one anymore. Much. Things haven’t quite changed since the elevator, not on the surface, but there is something between them that isn’t hatred. Maybe it’s…understanding, even. Just a tiny bit. They’ve been cordial between the sniping, their blows hardly carrying the same weight anymore.

 

Emma finds herself flushing when Regina smiles, or when anyone notices her staring at Regina, or when– well, most of the time. She doesn’t know what it is. Maybe she really does have a problem with Regina liking women, because she can’t get it out of her head. She watches Regina with every woman she interacts with, catches every touch and smile with her stomach twisting, is weird and snippy with said women afterwards.

 

She looks down at Regina, guilty at her own resentment, and her thumb strokes Regina’s back absently as she thinks of Regina in this very position with…with a girlfriend, maybe. With someone she actually likes. She’d never imagined Regina quite so defenseless before, but it’s doing something to her.

 

“You two got cozy overnight,” Neal says from the kitchen, smirking at her as he eats his cereal. “I knew you had it in you.”

 

Emma yawns, careful not to rouse Regina. A weird sort of protectiveness accompanies the awareness that Regina is sleeping in her arms, kind of, butterflies flipping in her stomach. “I don’t– the last thing I remember is going through social media–”

 

“You fell asleep.” Neal sets his coffee down, lowering his voice as he makes his way to the comfy chair. “I think Regina was just trying to hold out longer than you on principle, because she passed out about five minutes later.” They had been on opposite ends of the couch, Neal between them as they’d pored over Twitter and Facebook to try to get any feel of how well they’re going to do today, and Emma remembers getting drowsier and drowsier as the night had gone on.

 

She has no idea how this had ended with the two of them curled up together on one end of the couch. She isn’t even a _cuddler_. This must be Regina’s fault.

 

As though she senses Emma’s irritation, Regina shifts and mumbles in her sleep, her arm shifting away from Emma’s stomach to slide around her back. Emma watches her, a little awed. Regina is surprisingly…well, _cute_ like this. Regina somehow can sleep snuggled against Emma for an entire night without wrecking her hair, which is a whole new level of impossible that has Emma gaping at her.

 

“Watch this,” Neal murmurs, and he kneels in front of Regina, his voice low. “Regina, the busses are going to be late.”

 

Regina’s brow furrows in her sleep. “Bus in…voters from east side first,” she says into Emma’s skin. “Better demographic. Got to get to work on time.” She snuggles in a little closer, her hand dipping beneath Emma’s tank to graze her skin. Emma looks wide-eyed at Neal.

 

Neal doesn’t seem to notice, grinning at Emma again as he whispers, “The candidate called. He’s ten miles out of town with a flat. He won’t be here in time for the victory speech.”

 

Regina frowns again, her breathing still even. “Kathryn’s father…helicopter.”

 

“She can literally do all of this in her sleep,” Neal says proudly. “Regina, we’re down by ten–”

 

“ _What?_ ” Regina jerks awake, voice shrill and horrified. “We’re–” She looks around wildly, seeming to calm as she takes in the scene, then stiffening again as she catches sight of Emma. She realizes all at once what she’s doing, her eyes wide and her lips parting in horror. “You. What are you doing– what time is it?” she demands, pulling away from Emma so quickly that she tumbles onto the floor. “I fell asleep.”

 

Neal helps her up, a soothing arm around her waist. “Relax. It’s five in the morning. We still have time before we have to get going.”

 

“Yes.” Regina runs helpless fingers through her hair. “There was– something about the busses–”

 

“The busses are fine,” Neal says, his voice calming. “We’re doing _fine_. The last poll had us only four points behind Blanchard on likely voters. That’s hardly a margin.”

 

Regina rubs her eyes, leaving smudged mascara on her skin. “It’s not good enough. We have to– we need more likely voters. We need people coming in to vote _now_ , before they start work.” She’s panicking, pacing in circles as Emma looks on in tired bemusement. “We need to do _something_ , Neal, we’re going to–”

 

Regina’s phone rings, and she swoops down to the coffee table, staring at it with renewed panic. “I’m only at eight percent, Neal, do you have– some kind of portable charger– I can’t–”

 

“I have my phone with me, fully charged,” Neal says. “Emma has hers. _Breathe_.”

 

Emma digs into her pocket for her phone to check its charge and comes up empty. “Actually, I think I left mine at the–” At Neal’s glare, she adds hastily, “Kidding! Of course I’m kidding. Everything is under control.”

 

Regina stares at them, teeth gritted, and snatches up the phone. “Mills.” A pause, then, “ _What?_ ” She looks angrier, angrier than she’s been in a while. “If you’re using your position to sabotage my–” The voice on the other line is speaking again, calm and slow, and Regina falls silent. “I see,” she says, subdued. “We’ll be right there.” She clicks the phone off, leaving it resting in her palm.

 

“What’s going on?” Emma asks. Regina is staring at the phone now, eyes blank as though she’s shut down entirely. Emma seizes her arm, squeezes it until Regina turns to face her. “Regina. What’s going on?”

 

Regina blinks, taking in a breath. “Blanchard’s campaign headquarters were vandalized last night,” she says. “They’ve found something in there that points to…to our team.”

 

* * *

 

The sun is barely beginning to rise when they empty out of Regina’s car to the far side of Main Street. The streets are all but empty this early in the morning, the sky still dim and the town quiet. If not for the unusual number of cars parked in front of the Blanchard HQ and the gaggle of people standing in front of it, the town would be an eerie sort of still, like a landscape painting for someone’s living room. _Small Town On Primary Morning_ . _Oil on canvas._

 

“The media hasn’t picked this one up yet,” a man in a sheriff’s uniform says. He has a kind sort of face, the craggy features of someone who has spent most of his life smiling, and his hair is just beginning to grey. Sheriff Nolan, Mary Margaret’s husband. “But they’ll be here soon for interviews, and I can’t cover this up.”

 

“Of course not,” Regina says, still subdued, and Emma watches the duo behind the sheriff instead. Mary Margaret looks shaken, her assistant, Aurora, with her head turned away from them as she talks frantically into her phone. Beside them, the storefront is shattered, glass everywhere inside the office. A file cabinet has been opened and overturned, and palm cards are scattered everywhere. “You said you had evidence.”

 

Sheriff Nolan nods. “I found it behind the file cabinet,” he says, and he produces from his pocket a small item that makes Emma’s heart sink. “This look familiar?”

 

“I left it in the office last night,” she says as Regina’s eyes flicker to her. Neal puts a hand on Regina’s shoulder, Regina’s eyes burning into Emma with sudden shock. “Our office, I mean. Not– I didn’t go anywhere _near_ Mary Margaret’s office.”

 

“But this is your phone,” Nolan says slowly, and Emma nods, looks back at Regina pleadingly, gets no reaction. “Would you mind telling me where you were last night from the hours of eight and ten PM?”

 

Emma stares at him, a sinking feeling in her chest. _Not this. Not again_. “I– I was–”

 

“I can’t imagine this isn’t a conflict of interest for you, Sheriff,” Regina cuts in, scowling at him. “You must love this. Primary day and suddenly, mysteriously, my staff’s phone is found at the site of a break-in–”

 

“I would put a deputy on it if I could,” Nolan says, unbothered by Regina’s accusations. “But I’m understaffed at the moment. Graham’s been gone since he developed that heart condition, and the one part-time deputy I had left the job to work on your campaign policy. I don’t even have someone patrolling the night shift anymore.”

 

“Emma was in the office all last night,” Neal says loyally. “There’s no way she did this. She wouldn’t, anyway.”

 

“We’ve all seen the video of the studio,” Aurora says suddenly. She looks angry, while Mary Margaret only looks wounded as she stares at them. “We all know Regina Mills has a grudge against my candidate. You can’t tell me that any of you _wouldn’t_. You did this to us.”

 

Regina says, “Emma did a food run last night between eight and ten.” Emma’s head jerks to stare at Regina, betrayed, and Regina says, “We need a minute.”

 

She stalks to the corner, Emma following behind her, Neal on her heels. “You think I did it?” Emma demands, hurt. She’s grown accustomed to Regina, for all her snipes and disdain, still trusting her.

 

Regina shakes her head. “No. Did you?” she shoots back, and Emma stares at her in dismay and building anger. “No,” Regina says again, exhaling, and Emma calms herself. “But we can’t say you weren’t out there and then have someone report spotting you. We’ll look even more suspicious.” She rubs her eyes, taking a long breath. “Polls open at seven. We’ll already have volunteers in in a half hour. We need to work through this before the media discovers it or we’re fucked.”

 

She turns on her heel, back to Nolan, and she says, imperious, “I want to see the crime scene.”

 

“Be my guest,” Nolan says, shrugging. Small town police work is more laid back than anything Emma’s witnessed before, and her lip curls unconsciously, unimpressed. Nolan spots her face and raises his eyebrows. “Problem?”

 

Emma shakes her head. “Just…if we’re suspects, then why are you letting us go in there and check out the crime scene?” Regina is already pushing the door open, Neal beside her, both of them inspecting the wrecked office.

 

Nolan laughs. “You’ve been watching a lot of TV, huh? This is Storybrooke. A little bit of vandalism is no big deal. I’ll find the boys who did it and give them a warning.”

 

“So you don’t think we did it.”

 

Nolan shrugs again. “I don’t think you’d be stupid enough to sabotage your own image on Primary Day, no. And my wife can’t believe that you would do it. But I did pull your records and found some priors, so we have to check you out. The county cops love to come in here and arrest everyone they can whenever I file a report if I’m not thorough.”

 

He casts a wary eye toward the east side of town, then looks back at her. “I liked what your friend said after the debate, about a focus toward rehabilitation? But I don’t have nearly the power to make it happen, not when we have too much crime and not enough staff on call.”

 

“Maybe Mayor Locksley can change that,” Emma says smartly, a little uncertain of what to think. She doesn’t like cops, even when they’re older guys with nice smiles who don’t seem interested in getting her in trouble. “Look, is there any way that you can– not mention to the media whose phone you found in there? We want a fair fight today, right?” she looks at Mary Margaret pleadingly, and their opponent softens.

 

“I do want it to be fair,” Mary Margaret says. “And I don’t think Emma would do something like this. It could be old students with a grudge, or maybe Killian Jones’s team–”

 

Aurora snorts. “He’s running unopposed in his primary. They were probably out drinking all night.” Her eyes remain on Emma, distrustful. “I know you like this girl, but I don’t trust her or Regina Mills. She’s a proven criminal, and Mills is a _Mills_.”

 

Emma jolts at that. “Oh, _please_. Regina is nothing like her mother and you know that. You’re–”

 

“It’s something to pursue,” Nolan says, calming. “We’ll explore all avenues, of course. But we can’t do all of that before seven AM.”

 

Emma tears her eyes away from Aurora, the facts of their situation dawning clearer and clearer with the sun. “Then we’re going to lose,” she says, and no one has any response to that.

 

* * *

 

They’re going to lose. Regina wants to sob with the awareness of it, with the slow realization as it bears down on her and keeps pressing. She is in the earth, suffocated on all sides, no way out and no solution. They’re going to lose, all because Emma Swan couldn’t hold onto her phone for _one fucking night_.

 

There are no signs of a break-in at their campaign office, no evidence that Emma’s phone had been stolen to be planted at the crime scene. “It was a hectic night,” Emma says, chewing on her lip as she tries to remember. “I definitely had it when I went to get the pizza because I called the office about toppings. I don’t remember using it after that.”

 

Sheriff Nolan still has her phone, and Emma has Jacinda’s pressed to her ear as she talks to one of the volunteers between explanations. “Yeah, just wait there. We’ll meet you at the site with the palm cards. Make sure Robin’s name is the last thing they see before they go into the polling site.” She heaves a sigh and turns back to Regina. “I don’t know. Maybe someone grabbed it from my pocket.”

 

“What do we do?” Mulan says, laptop under her arm. She’s on speech duty, fine-tuning what she’s already written and staying far away from the hullabaloo that will be primary day. “Do we fight back against this?”

 

Regina pauses, feels all eyes on her, and takes a breath. _I don’t know_ , she wants to say, to turn and ask Neal or Tamara or Marian for help. But they’re all watching her with total faith, with surety that she’s going to make the right call. “We ignore it,” she says. “We do what we’ve been doing for the past two months and we go out and talk to people and encourage them to vote.” She clears her voice, feeling more confident in her decision. “This is a distraction. We don’t need distractions. Ruby, I want you coordinating volunteers. Get two at every poll site in our demo and have the rest in all the usual places. Emma, Jacinda, you’re in the field. Make sure every volunteer has palm cards, keep an eye on what Blanchard’s people are up to.”

 

Her staff begins to scatter, following orders, and Regina turns to Tamara. “You’re with me. Talk to the media. Tell them we’re very confident. Bulk up our turnout.”

 

“You got it, boss.”

 

“Emma–” Emma turns, flashes her an uncertain smile, and Regina feels the oddest urge to reassure her. She doesn’t. That isn’t who they are. “The voters need to think that our turnout is dire. We need to hammer home to them that we need every single vote.”

 

“Yeah,” Emma says, nodding decisively. “Yeah, of course.”

 

“Sabine, is the watch party all set?”

 

Sabine nods. “Few last-minute things to take care and I’m all set.”

 

“Good. Kathryn is on call. Make sure you have her number, J. Neal, take the candidate around today, okay? Keep him happy and well-fed. I want him to hit every polling site by noon so he can go around again after work hours. Shake hands, make friends with the polling workers. Keep it legal.”

 

Neal grins. “I always do.”

 

“Except that time in Portland,” Tamara says slyly, elbowing Neal in the arm. He gasps at her in outrage. Regina’s eyes flicker to Emma, who is quiet. She’s been quiet since everyone had gotten here, removed from the action even as she does her job, and Regina itches to speak to her, to give her a push so she’ll jerk back into action. They need Emma’s energy today, and as much of an absolute imbecile as she is, there’s no _time_ for recriminations.

 

“Swan!” she barks out, and Emma jumps, her jaw setting as though she’s awaiting punishment. Regina nods to the door, and Emma scrambles.

 

The office empties out swiftly. Emma and Jacinda leave with a pack of volunteers, Ruby on the phone with them as she climbs into her car. Mulan disappears to a coffee shop. Neal heads out to pick up the candidate, Sabine goes to retrieve some of their newly printed materials, and Tamara is on her way to Mary Margaret’s campaign office to do damage control with the press.

 

Regina is suddenly alone for the first time today. Her phone is quiet for now, charged enough that she can disconnect it, and she walks down Main Street for a moment, glancing down the block at where a media van has just parked at the crime scene.

 

 _Here it comes_. Until now, she had never allowed herself to doubt that they were going to make it to the end. She had seen the campaign as a bright line from start to finish, a line that ends only on Election Day, a line that had barely made a single bump for the primaries, in her vision.

 

She’d been a fool. She’d underestimated Mary Margaret Blanchard, who hadn’t needed to campaign at all, and now she’s paying the price for it. This break-in isn’t the be-all end-all of the campaign, but they’d been teetering on the edge for a while, and this will drag them onto the losing side. She’d failed, and she’d failed her team, who still looks at her with absolute trust.

 

She’d been a fool to ever believe that she could outsmart her mother and make a difference. And she’s dragged so many people down with her. Storybrooke doesn’t want change. It had been a self-important, privileged lark to believe otherwise.

 

She turns around suddenly, too close to the crime scene. She’s in no state to talk to reporters. She feels as though she’s about to careen off of a precipice, as though she’d destroyed everything in a rush of foolish defiance. It’s too early in the day to feel this defeated, _god_. It’s too early to be focusing on anything but the campaign.

 

She pushes the door to their headquarters open, sighing aloud when she sees the office door open. Neal is sitting in the chair behind the desk, his back to her and his hair slicked down, and she says tiredly, “Do _not_ tell me there was a problem with the candidate, Neal.”

 

The chair spins around slowly, and somehow she knows at once that it isn’t going to be Neal in it. It’s just that kind of day. “Regina Mills,” Killian Jones drawls, leaning back in the seat as though he belongs there. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

 

Regina stiffens, her fingers curling into her palm. “What the hell are you doing in my office?”

 

Jones has an insufferable smirk, the look of a man who holds every card in his hand. “I thought we could have a chat.”

 

Her phone is buzzing, just a text from Jacinda. _Voter here already voted, wants to change his vote_.

 

 _Call Kathryn_ , she types swiftly, and then looks back at the menace in her office. “I’m a little busy,” she says coolly.

 

“Doing damage control?” he says, smug, and Regina is startled into silence. She can feel her filed nails pressing into her skin, can feel her expression turn hard and brittle. Jones watches her like a big cat surveying its prey. “I just want to help, love,” he says, tilting his head.

 

Regina scoffs. “Help how?” The last person in this town she might trust is _Killian Jones_. Even if he weren’t her opponent, he’s one of Mother’s pets, a chess piece for Mother to move around on the board as she sees fit. There is nothing Killian Jones can offer her that won’t come with a price.

 

Jones is unbothered by her hostility. “You know,” he says, looking contemplative for a moment. “You have so much potential. Cora’s daughter…” Regina balks at that before she stiffens, back straight and chin up. “You’re the closest we have to royalty in this town,” he says. “Aside from me, that is.” Regina snorts, amused at his self-importance. Of course Killian Jones has an inflated view of himself. She entertains herself for a moment with thoughts of Emma pummeling him, though that lends itself to other, unwanted thoughts.

 

Jones ignores her reaction and leans forward, one elbow on the desk. “Imagine what we can do together, love.”

 

“Imagine me flattening you if you call me ‘love’ again,” Regina says pleasantly. It feels good to be angry like this, cold and vicious, to take out her frustrations on someone who deserves it. And Jones deserves all this and more for what he’s going to do to Storybrooke.

 

He grins. “Such fire. I like that in a lass.”

 

She sneers at him. “Don’t equate us,” she says, the immediate revulsion at _imagine what we can do together_ still unpleasant in her stomach. She might not know how to talk to the voters like Emma does, but she knows how to speak to people like Jones, to condescend with thin-lipped smiles that speak volumes of distaste. “You’re no one.”

 

He isn’t fazed. “Hardly,” he says. “I’m quite the catch. Handsome, wealthy, rather well known…and soon to be mayor.”

 

Regina laughs, light and amused, as though she’s heard an easy joke instead of her worst nightmare come to life. “I don’t think so.”

 

Jones considers her, eyes roaming shamelessly across her body. Regina stays very still. To flinch is a sign of weakness, a sign of affectedness that she will not grant one of her mother’s cronies. “You know,” he says, “Historically, women in politics have a much easier time of it when they’re following in their husband’s footsteps.” Regina quakes with fury, with helplessness, and Jones sees it and smiles, the big cat now toying with its prey. “I could support you through law school. Stand beside you and win over Maine with this charming smile.” It looks more like a leer, more like the start to a smirk than anything. “I could help you achieve your dreams.”

 

That’s a dash of cold water to what had never been a temptation at all. “I think you have me confused with my mother,” Regina says, very done. “I’m not interested in deals with the devil.”

 

Jones leans back again, the chair creaking with him. “We’ll see,” he drawls, standing up at last to slope past her. “Your Majesty,” he says, brushing against her. Something metallic and small passes into her hand, and then he’s gone.

 

She turns it over in her hand. It’s a flash drive, and she almost sticks it into her computer before she reconsiders. She isn’t installing some virus into their network at the office, not for whatever nonsense Killian Jones has to offer her.

 

She answers calls absentmindedly as she hurries to the library, speaking in a hushed tone as Neal updates her on the candidate’s location. “Yes. Keep him going for another few stops and then you can take a break,” she says, sticking the flash drive into a library computer. “Send volunteers to the school– Jacinda says they’re understaffed there–” She hangs up very suddenly, staring at the file onscreen.

 

There had only been three files on the flash drive, a series of pictures she’d just opened. They have time stamps in the corner, dating them to 9:30 PM last night, and they feature Aurora Rose, Mary Margaret’s campaign manager, with something large and blunt in her hands as she shatters the glass to her own office.

 

Jones had given them evidence, enough to turn things around, and Regina stares, stares, stares with _we’ll see, Your Majesty_ still ringing through her mind.

 

* * *

 

Primary Day, thus far, has been an unqualified _disaster_.

 

First of all, for someone who had barely campaigned, Mary Margaret has a veritable _army_ of high school seniors swarming the poll sites. Only a few of them can vote, thankfully, but they’re everywhere, eyeing Emma’s volunteers with unfriendly looks and making snide remarks about everything from the quality of their clothes to the palm cards they’re handing out determinedly. Drew and Remy nearly come to blows with one of them before Jacinda drags them apart, threatening to call the cops.

 

 _The cops_ means the county police, because Sheriff Nolan is still busy with the break-in. The media is reporting it as breaking news, _or break-in news, I should say, Anna_ , and they sit through it every time they get back into the car. “The sheriff won’t name any suspects, but a source tells us that Emma Swan’s phone was found at the scene. Sounds like a pretty open-and-shut case, doesn’t it?” Hans is saying.

 

Anna’s voice is dripping with exaggerated dismay, apparently over her sympathy for them at the debate. “Attacking your opponent’s campaign on the night before the election. How low can you go?”

 

“That’s just Emma Swan,” Hans says, and they both laugh.

 

Emma’s hands are clamped onto the steering wheel, a litany of _this does not bother me_ running through her head until she might believe it. “Hey,” Jacinda says from beside her, reaching out to squeeze her hand. They aren’t close. Emma hardly knows Jacinda, who works only part-time in the office and is the calmer presence beside Sabine. But today, Jacinda has been nothing but supportive. “Ignore them. They’re trolls.”

 

“They’re going to lose us the election in my name,” Emma says, staring out the windshield.

 

Jacinda scoffs. “It’s not on you. Someone stole your phone–”

 

“Or I was dumb enough to leave it somewhere and give people ideas.” Regina had been right about her, which burns _so_ much more than it should. “And now we’re screwed.”

 

“We’re not screwed until the numbers are in.”

 

That’s the recitation of today, over and over again as they pull apart gaggles of volunteers and make hurried phone calls to Ruby and Kathryn and Regina and Kathryn again. As organized as they’d been the day before, as prepared as they’d thought they’d been, they’re flailing today. “We have no volunteers at the church on Magnolia and there are _crowds_ there,” Emma says into the phone. Jacinda is passing out palm cards as quickly as she can, smiling at the people filtering in and looking very harried.

 

“I’ll send Lance and Gwen. Their site is silent,” Ruby says.

 

“ _Silent_?” Emma echoes, suddenly worried. “But they had the school! That was supposed to be our biggest demographic–”

 

“I know. I _know_ ,” Ruby sounds exhausted. “People aren’t showing up. You need a presidential election for anyone to care about politics.”

 

“Shit.” Emma hangs up, joining Jacinda at the sidewalk in front of the church. “Consider voting for Storybrooke’s future,” she says, offering a palm card to a voter.

 

He looks at it, then her. “I’m not voting for the hoodlums,” he grunts, shoving past her.

 

“Oh, fuck you–” Jacinda has to grab Emma before she goes after him.

 

“Ignore him,” she says in Emma’s ear. “Ignore him. We have more palm cards to give.” She reaches into her bag, then freezes. “Fuck. No, we don’t.”

 

Emma stares at her. “We’re out of material?”

 

Jacinda digs into the bag again. “We didn’t expect people to vote here. We gave too many out to the other groups.” Emma can feel new panic rising, new frustration. “We need to print more.”

 

“Now?”

 

“When else?” Jacinda massages her forehead. “That’s going to be half our budget in one day. I’ve got to go.” She thrusts the last of palm cards into Emma’s hands and takes off for her car, her phone gone with her.

 

Emma is officially off the grid. She passes out palm cards mechanically, smiles at snide comments and ignores the crowd of teenagers who show up with their own palm cards for Mary Margaret. This polling site seems to have attracted the west side of Storybrooke, people with the time and leisure to go out and vote at eleven in the morning.

 

When she’s out of palm cards, she starts walking. Ruby had been at the sheriff’s station polling site, last she’d heard, and Emma has no idea what’s going on in the campaign now. For all she knows, there have been a dozen crises since Jacinda had left, and she’s been out of the loop for all of them.

 

She wants to win. She _needs_ to win, for everyone on their team and for Storybrooke itself and because she doesn’t have a place in this town at all if she isn’t on the campaign team. Life beyond the election is a blurry picture, not yet formed, and it can’t be coming tomorrow. She’s only just beginning to find a place, and–

 

The station has a steady stream of arrivals, Ruby smiling at each visitor as they come, and she waves Emma over. “David has some detective from the county looking over your phone now,” she says reassuringly. “It won’t be long now. Jacinda says she’s still waiting on the palm cards, but Neal and Marian are taking care of the volunteers. Stay in this area for another hour or so and you’ll have it back.”

 

A wave of relief washes over Emma, followed by a moment of curiosity. “David?” she echoes.

 

Ruby hears the question and grins. “Please. I grew up in the diner. Mary Margaret and David have come in every morning at 7:15 for breakfast since before I was born. When I was nine, I used to refer to them as my best friends. Small towns, Em.”

 

Emma laughs. “I’m surprised you didn’t join the teeny-bopper campaign Mary Margaret has going on right now.”

 

Ruby shakes her head. “She asked me,” she admits. “She wanted me to run the whole thing after Regina turned her down. But I also…” She bites her lip. “I spent my life in a one-bedroom apartment on top of the diner. White trash, you know? Poor and an orphan kid and I was lucky if that was all they’d call me. And Mary Margaret loves this town, she _does_ , but she wants to pretend that it’s all sunshine and roses. She doesn’t understand Storybrooke.”

 

“Does Robin?” Emma asks. “Does Regina?”

 

“Not completely,” Ruby admits. “But she _wants_ to, you know? And that matters.” She glances down the street to where their big sign hangs, **IT’S THE HONOURABLE THING TO DO**. “I think so, anyway.”

 

“Yeah,” Emma says, smiling, and she feels a little more certain about today, a little less sick to her stomach. “I think so, too.”

 

She heads down the street, ducking into the campaign headquarters. Sabine is pacing inside, barking orders into the phone. Tamara is scrolling Twitter and doesn’t look up to greet her. Mulan is on the floor in the supply closet, brow furrowed as she types furiously.

 

The office door is closed, and Emma sees Regina inside and moves toward her unconsciously, drawn to her without any thought why. There is something about Regina that always draws her in, that brings her closer without reason, that craves for that moment when their eyes lock and hold.

 

Regina doesn’t notice her this time. She’s contemplating a flash drive in her hands, staring at it as though it holds the secrets of the universe, and she startles when Emma knocks on the door and pushes it open. “Hi,” Emma says.

 

They’re in an odd limbo now, somewhere between not-quite-hate and not-quite-dislike, and Regina gives her a tight smile that becomes a scowl as she remembers that. “Shouldn’t you be making the rounds?”

 

“Jacinda took the car. I have no phone,” Emma says, spreading her hands out palms-out. “I’m kind of stuck.”

 

Regina gives her an impatient sort of sigh, already done with her, and Emma backs out of the room before it spills over into a fight. And then, abruptly, “Emma?”

 

Emma looks up. Regina is watching her, looking very lost. “You said…you said we control our narrative, not the media, right?” Emma had expected Regina to be furious with her for this new drama. Somehow, the dull voice with which she asks this question is even worse. “Do you still believe that?”

 

“Yeah,” Emma says at once, as though she hadn’t been ready to throw down with Anna Arendelle. “Yeah, I do.”

 

“Even today?”

 

It’s a question she’s been muddling over all day, her instincts up against her hurt and anger and never quite winning. But Regina, who is the pinnacle of triumphant certainty, needs certainty from Emma now, and so Emma struggles to put aside her trepidation and raises her chin stubbornly. “Especially today,” she says.

 

Regina’s lips curve into a smile, so soft it’s nearly affectionate, and Emma’s heart leaps in her chest. “What would this campaign be without you, Emma Swan?” she murmurs.

 

Emma can feel her eyes blurring, her throat thick with emotion. _Probably a little less controversial_ , she thinks, but she can’t bring herself to say it or anything else. Regina is sad and muted as she never is, and Emma searches for the right words, for anything that might pull Regina out of this.

 

As it is, her phone does the job instead. It rings, and Regina picks it up. “Mills– she _what_ ?” The fury is back in full force in a single instant, Regina returned to her truest self. “I don’t give a damn what the other side was doing! We can’t have volunteers being _arrested_ !” she barks into the phone, Emma forgotten. “Tell me Merida is of age, because if we just got a _minor_ arrested–”

 

Emma slips out, grinning to herself.

 

The streets are mostly empty. This is the limbo between morning hours and lunch, when people are at work instead of voting. The rush of working class voters will come later, she hopes. If there _is_ a wave at all.

 

She walks aimlessly, smiling at Ruby’s grandmother and at Marco from the carpentry store, who gives her a thumbs up. The area around Mary Margaret’s office has been marked off with police tape, and a few official-looking officers in uniform are standing around it, ignoring her as she watches them talk.

 

Before she knows it, she’s standing in front of the superstore. There are maybe five cars in its huge lot, an empty storefront on either side of it. It stands, hemorrhaging money with just its existence, and Emma stares up at it and wonders at what Regina and the Locksleys could do with it if given the chance.

 

She catches a whiff of cigarette smoke as she turns to go, and she follows it on a whim, rounding the side of the superstore to enter an alley behind it. An empty dumpster sits to the side of it, and a dozen kids around her age or younger are sitting around the dumpster, perched on top or sprawled out against the fence. “Hey,” she says. “You work here?”

 

The sole girl present snorts. “No one works here,” she says, blowing cigarette smoke directly into Emma’s face. “Why, you the new manager?” They all laugh at that, mocking and unfriendly, and Emma doesn’t move.

 

They remind her of…they remind her of herself, really, though she’d never had enough friends to be huddled together in an alley with. There had just been Lily, then August, then Neal. They aren’t going to be checking off any list of likely voters anytime soon, whether or not they’d been automatically registered to vote when they’d gotten their licenses. Emma had been registered in Boston when she’d turned eighteen by some well-meaning social worker, and she’d only shown up to put in a vote for _FUCKER MCFUCKFACE_ because that had been about her mood that day.

 

“I’m with the Locksley campaign,” she says, leaning against the fence. “You know him?”

 

“Sure we do,” one of the boys on the dumpster says in a terrible Cockney. They guffaw again, a little too hard. Emma knows at once that he must be the leader of the group, and she lifts her face to watch him. He looks at Emma with disgust. “You really buy that shit? You don’t look like one of the moneyhags.”

 

“Regina Mills is _hot,_ though,” the girl notes with a filthy smile. “I’d give her my vote if she’d let me–”

 

“Okay,” Emma says hastily, a flush building behind her ears. “Okay, enough. I know Locksley doesn’t…doesn’t seem like all that,” she admits. “But he has some good ideas. You guys hear any of it?”

 

The kids stare at her, looking very bewildered at her offer. “You want to…lecture us on policy?” the girl says, taking a long drag of her cigarette. “Are you for real?”

 

“Careful, Ava, you sound like a nerd,” the boys on the dumpster calls out, and they snicker at once.

 

Emma waits, still uncertain about this, and eventually, they stop laughing and turn to face her again, wearing identical dubious looks. “Yeah,” she says. “I want to tell you what you can vote for today. You got a few minutes?”

 

A pause, a lot of glances, and then the boy on the dumpster says, “Yeah, okay.”

 

* * *

 

“Hello, Mother,” Regina says tiredly when she picks up the phone. “Calling to wish me luck?”

 

Mother laughs lightly, dismissively. “Oh, dear, really? I’ve seen the morning news.” Ah. They’re twelve seconds into the conversation, and Regina already wants to tear her hair out. She stands up, shutting the office door and staring out the window in an attempt to calm herself. Mother is nothing if not capable at prodding all of Regina’s buttons until she’s lost control. “I’ve pulled some strings at Yale and gotten you enrolled for next semester. I think you’ll like the coursework I’ve chosen for you–”

 

“I will be campaigning until November,” Regina says, clenching her teeth. “I won’t be in Yale.”

 

Mother heaves a sigh. “Regina, this fiction has come to an end. That miscreant you brought in from the streets has ruined any chance you might have had for victory. You can frame this as an exercise in civics, if you’d like. A primary campaign never meant to be taken seriously.” She’s speaking in clipped tones, the sort that Regina knows better than to interrupt.

 

Today is not a day for _knowing better_. “Emma didn’t ruin anything, Mother,” she cuts in. “I think you know that. You got to Aurora Rose, didn’t you? You and Jones persuaded her to frame us for the break-in.” She hears Mother’s sigh, the moment she’s about to cut in and deny it all, and she blows past it. “Was this to push me out of the election? No,” she says slowly, because Jones wouldn’t have come to her if it were. “No, it wasn’t.”

 

Mother scoffs. “What nonsense have you come up with this time, dear?”

 

Regina straightens, the truth hitting her like a bolt of energy. “You want me back in college,” she says. “You want me out of this race. But more than that, you want to _win_.” It’s never occurred to her before that Mother might put anything ahead of Regina’s success, but of course she would. Of course she would sacrifice Regina at the altar of her own power. “You’re testing both of us. Whoever’s willing to work with Jones…that’s who you want in the general election. And you’ll be able to hold that over us then, too.”

 

“Your imagination has always been far too vivid,” Mother says sharply. “You see conspiracies and reasons for paranoia everywhere.” Her voice gentles, and Regina feels a pang in response, an unconscious reaction that she hasn’t been able to shake since childhood. “Regina, darling. I only want to see you succeed.”

 

She can feel the trap closing in on them, the awareness that Mother has set this up so they will fail. Either way, they’re trapped. They lose the primary or they lose the election, and then–

 

She remembers a casual comment from Emma last week, an amused _Mary Margaret wants to hire us if she gets through the primary_ that had just gotten a _shut up_ from Regina. There are still options, if Robin is out. They get rid of Aurora and the scandal she represents, set up Regina in her place, swallow their pride and work for Mary Margaret. They can–

 

She looks out the window again, and this time, she sucks in a breath. Emma Swan is walking down Main Street. And she isn’t alone.

 

There are a crowd of teens and twenty-somethings all around her, crowding with her as they march together through the empty street. They aren’t anyone Regina’s seen before during campaigning, not at community events or at the parks, not even when they’d gone door-to-door canvassing. There must be at least a dozen of them with Emma, laughing carelessly and talking on their phones, and more arrive in cars and by foot and on bikes as Regina looks on.

 

There’s a veritable _army_ of kids with Emma, and Regina watches breathlessly, gazes at the crowd in awe as they begin to disperse. A chunk of them go straight to the station, a little wary outside it, and Ruby surges forward with warm familiarity and palm cards for each. Emma stands tall as they swarm ahead, pointing them in other directions as a boy beside her nods and gestures. She looks like a beacon of light, of calm confidence, of victory.

 

“Regina?” Mother says, sounding irritated at her silence.

 

Regina smiles, dropping the flash drive into the garbage can by the window. “I think, Mother,” she says, “I think you will be very pleased, then. Because I _will_ succeed.”

 

* * *

 

The watch party is much more raucous than planned. A number of Emma’s friends from the day are crowded in beside her, eating too much of the food and leering at Ruby and Regina with equal interest. Ruby takes it in stride, patting the leader of the group on the head and saying, “Peter, I remember you running around the diner in diapers when I was in middle school.”

 

Two others have parked themselves on Emma’s desk, loudly speculating as to how much the desktops might be worth. “Not enough,” Emma tells them, sliding an arm around each. “Let me tell you, grand larceny isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” She tosses a grin at Regina, sly and teasing, and Regina exhales and doesn’t scowl back.

 

The polls have closed. What’s done is done. Now, all they can do is wait for the results.

 

They’d pushed the cubicle walls up against the office in the back, pushed desks against the walls and set up a buffet on the right side of the room. The office is all but inaccessible, if not for a tiny bit of space that requires weaving through a number of folded-up walls to get to the door. The flash drive in the garbage there no longer burns in Regina’s pocket, but she thinks she’ll probably have to pull it out again at some point, keep it _just in case_.

 

She doesn’t know _just in case_ what, but she’s wary enough to keep it in the back of her mind.

 

“The first results are beginning to filter in!” Anna announces from the TV on the wall. “An exciting primary battle for the Maine All Families party. I don’t think we’ve had a tussle like this in years.”

 

“Not in the MAF, Anna,” Hans agrees. “I don’t remember a single candidate stirring up this much excitement in a long time.” He flashes a smile at the screen. “The general election is going to be a wild ride, with Killian Jones still the favorite for mayor. But our current lead– there it is,” he says as numbers appear on the board. “Robin Locksley has 88% of the vote, with two percent reporting. Let’s see if he can hold that lead.” Sabine lets out a _yes!_ , and Emma’s kids whoop.

 

Regina says grimly, “Let’s not get too excited.”

 

Neal sidles up next to her, slipping an arm around her shoulders, and she leans into him as he presses a kiss to the top of her head. “We’re doing great,” he says. “You did great.”

 

“You did, too,” Regina admits, looking up at him. “I gave a lot of orders. You kept everyone centered.” It’s Neal’s greatest gift, as much as it frustrates her at times. Neal is good with people, is good at taking it easy, is good at calming down even the most dire of situations.

 

“We make a good team,” Neal agrees fondly. “You’ve done some really fucking amazing things this election.” He reaches out to tug Emma to him, under his other arm. “And I brought in Emma, which you _have_ to admit was a good call.”

 

Emma grins impishly at her. “Yeah, Regina. You have to admit that one.”

 

“I’d rather set myself on fire,” Regina scoffs, more out of habit than any hostility. Emma is leaning against Neal, too, her eyes warm on Regina, and it has Regina catching her breath, her heart skipping beats.

 

Hans is the one to pull away from Emma’s gaze. “And now we’re up to eighteen percent reporting, with the votes evening out. Mary Margaret Blanchard is up at 51% of the vote! That’s a tight race.”

 

“Voters may have been influenced by the break-in this morning, which is still under investigation,” Anna informs the very quiet room. “We’ll have more for you in a few minutes, but first, let’s take a look at the crime scene.”

 

“It’s going to be fine,” Neal murmurs in Regina’s ear. “Smaller polling sites are never our demo. It’s going to be fine. We have this under control.”

 

But they don’t. With thirty percent reporting, Mary Margaret’s numbers go up to 56%, Robin far beneath her at 42%. Robin himself is taking the numbers with equanimity, Marian smiling and calm as she chats with Emma’s kids and volunteers. Tamara is reading Mulan’s speech, both of them in another world. But Sabine is standing in front of the screen, fists clenched as she watches them drop, and Regina swallows past a lump in her throat.

 

“57% for Blanchard now,” Hans announces, and Regina wrenches herself away from Neal, her heart pounding and her eyes hurting, and she shoves through the cubicle walls and pushes her way into the office. She presses her hands to her mouth before she screams silently, slams her hands across the desk and sends pens and palm cards flying, slams her fists against a wall too hard and heavy to do anything but bruise them.

 

“No. No. No,” she chants, furious. “No, _god_ , I can’t–”

 

She slams her fist into the wall again until it’s bleeding, until she’s blazing with anger and despair, grateful for the cubicle walls that are concealing the office window from view. They’re losing. They’re losing, Mary Margaret will win, and she won’t have even made it to the general election.

 

It isn’t _fair_ that Mary Margaret take this from her, that Mary Margaret can seize her future again and pull it out from under her. She’d run a perfect campaign. She knows it. She’s done everything exactly as she’d been meant to, and the only snags in the operation had been from–

 

Emma Swan pokes her head into the office, and Regina turns on her in a furious blaze of desperate rage. “You,” she snarls, shaking. “You did this.”

 

“Regina, is now really the time for this?” Emma says wearily, closing the door behind her. “We’re still down by twelve, but–”

 

“Shut _up_ !” Regina snaps, jabbing a finger at her. “You think– you think you can waltz into my campaign and _destroy_ it?”

 

Emma stares at her in disbelief, her own ire rising. _Good_ . Regina needs a fight, needs to _hurt_ someone, because the alternative is standing by silently and watching her dreams slip away and she refuses to ever sit still. “I brought in an entire demographic today!” she protests.

 

“After you _lost_ all the others!” Regina says furiously. “Because you couldn’t keep an eye on your phone for _one_ night– because of all the– the scandals and your _idiotic_ strategy– I _told_ you we needed the media, and you–” She breathes in, hard and angry. “You were poison to this campaign, _Swan_.”

 

That hits Emma hard, and Regina sees the flinch and is too worked up to care. “Fuck you,” Emma bites out, her eyes narrowing with hurt. They’re good at this, at fighting it out when they’re tense, landing too-sharp blows with little provocation. Regina craves it now, craves Emma Swan, and Emma is breathing hard like she might need Regina for the exact same purpose. “Fuck you and the high horse you rode up in. This campaign was impossible from the _start_. What the hell does a spoiled rich girl know about Storybrooke? Like this isn’t one long tantrum against your mother,” she fires back.

 

Regina jerks, stung. “Go to hell,” she says, breathing hard, and she wants to lash out, to take out her frustrations on Emma Swan, who drives her out of her mind in _so_ many ways, who– “Go to _hell_. I had the perfect campaign until–”

 

“Until what?” Emma demands. “You weren’t even a blip on anyone’s radar. You were just a woman with a bad attitude who had to hide behind her brother to get anyone to take her campaign seriously.” Emma spars verbally like she fights physically, all messy, wild blows that hit and hit and hit with more and more force.

 

Regina can give as good as she gets. It feels satisfying, finally getting to take out her despair on someone, to _fight_. It feels especially satisfying with Emma, who has the same capacity for temper as she does, who doesn’t give a damn if they scorch the earth until nothing is left. “Like you didn’t spend weeks hiding behind Neal, you coward?” she fires back.

 

Emma sneers at her, fists clenched as she retorts. “You don’t care about any of this. You just care about winning, and–”

 

Regina shoves her, shaking with the force of her own rage. “Don’t tell me what I care about,” she hisses, stalking forward. They’re inches apart, trembling with fury,  “Don’t tell me _anything_ , you _useless nobody_ – you _hooligan_ – you–” Emma shifts, eyes wild, and Regina can feel her heart pounding in her chest. “You’re a pathetic waste of space–”

 

“And you’re a monster,” Emma hurls at her, and Regina lets out a strangled scream of fury as Emma pushes her back against the wall, pins her to it with those wild eyes and Emma’s short breaths tickling at Regina’s lips. There’s an instant of pure rage, of something nearly animalistic, where Regina is certain that Emma might flatten her like she did Killian Jones once, and then Emma surges forward instead and kisses her.

 

This is nothing like the kisses Regina’s seen from her before, sweet and small and chaste. Emma kisses Regina with desperate, furious open-mouthed blows, attacks her mouth while Regina gasps into it and matches her fury. Regina kisses her desperately, channeling all her frustration into the way their lips crash together, into hot-breathed kisses and her tongue in Emma’s mouth until Emma lets out an exhilarated sob.

 

Regina sinks her teeth into Emma’s lower lip and pulls, then releases, then shoves Emma until the last remaining paraphernalia on the desk has been swept from it and Emma is backed against it. Emma yanks her forward, holds her in place and leaves hot kisses on Regina’s jaw, along her neck, sucking at her collarbone until Regina’s throat feels raw with need and the choked sounds she keeps making.

 

She grinds in closer to Emma, their chests pressed together, her hands tangling in Emma’s _fucking_ Disney Princess curls until Emma moans. She’s been– she’s been dreaming about this for far too long, been cursing herself at night for thoughts she can’t shake, for this damned attraction to someone who would _never_ –

 

She can’t seem to remember why it had been _never_ , not when Emma lifts her head and Regina is given access to the expanse of her neck, not when Emma’s hands slide over her shirt to thumb a nipple, not when she’s being slammed against the wall again. There is no _never_ . There is only Emma hoisting her up suddenly against the wall, Regina wrapping her legs around Emma’s hips and her arms around Emma’s neck, Emma’s hands squeezing her ass as she kisses Regina hard, once and twice and thrice and _god_ , Regina’s heart is pounding and her breath is coming out in bursts and pants, Regina feels as though she might explode from need, Regina is so wet that one more squeeze of her ass and she might come–

 

A bang sounds from somewhere behind the office door, loud enough to break through their kissing and the fog over Regina’s brain. Emma jumps, Regina sliding to the ground, and they stare at each other in muted horror and desire, Emma’s eyes still blazing as they jump apart.

 

It’s just in time. The bang had been a cubicle wall crashing into the wall as Jacinda had pushed her way toward the room, and she finally pokes her head in now. “Hey, you two, Tamara’s been doing the math and–” She stops, taking them in, the two of them standing facing each other with wild hair and flushed faces, and her eyes widen. “Oh,” she says.

 

Emma lets out a sound somewhere between a wail and a groan, refusing to look at Regina. Regina can only stand, frozen, eyes on Emma. Emma pulls away, nearly trips as she races for the door and retreats. Regina is left behind her, still unable to move.

 

“...So I don’t think she has a problem with lesbians,” Jacinda says conversationally.

 

At that, Regina finally jerks awake. “Nothing just happened,” she says automatically, staring at the wrecked desk. Her whole body still feels alive with need, with a desperate desire for Emma that she can’t shake. She’s still shaking, just a tiny bit.

 

“Right,” Jacinda says, dubious.

 

“I mean it. I wouldn’t– oh, _god_ ,” Regina says, the full extent of what had happened beginning to dawn on her. “She’s Neal’s girlfriend.” Her brother is _in love_ with Emma, and Regina had just… had just… “And I don’t even _like_ her.”

 

Jacinda arches an eyebrow and folds her arms. “Mmhm.”

 

Regina’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Jacinda shrugs, spreading her hands. “Look, all I’m saying is that it’s not exactly a surprise,” she says finally.

 

Jacinda had been Regina’s first gay friend– well, bisexual friend, anyway– in Storybrooke, the only person in this whole damned town who’d seemed to understand that part of her completely. It’s a terrible shame that Regina’s going to have to kill her. “What?”

 

“Nothing!” Jacinda says, and if she hadn’t looked like she were hiding a laugh, Regina might have let it go.

 

“Tell me,” Regina demands, frustrated and discombobulated and very out of her depth.

 

Jacinda gives her a one-shouldered shrug, turning back around to the door. “I’m not going to tell you,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “You’ll just get cranky if i point out that you’ve always been hot for Emma Swan.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

Now Jacinda is definitely hiding a laugh. “See?”

 

“You’re full of it,” Regina says, outraged. “I am _not_ – and even if I were, you wouldn’t have _known_ –” Regina is fucking _subtle_ , and any attraction to Emma had been severely understated at _best_. “Why are we even talking about this right now when we’re losing the election?” she demands, the sudden, stark reality of that settling back in.

 

Jacinda shakes her head, her almost-laugh blooming into a grin, and Regina’s heart leaps in her chest. “That’s why I came to get you,” she says, and Regina makes a beeline for the door, pushing it open and shoving plastic walls aside to take in the screen opposite them.

 

The room is alive with chatter, with cheering, and Hans onscreen says, “We’ve just gotten word from the First Precinct. Those numbers should be in within a minute or two.”

 

“Tamara did the math,” Jacinda says from beside her, gazing up at the board behind Hans and Anna– the _board_ , which gives 49% to Blanchard and 47% to Locksley. “Our demographic-friendly precincts have been the last to report. We don’t know if that necessarily means that they have more to count, but–”

 

“The First Precinct,” Regina says slowly. “That’s the sheriff’s station. That’s _ours_.” It had been theirs all day, thanks to Emma’s kids and the apartments they’d canvassed at. It had been one of their friendliest precincts, which means…

 

The numbers swap, very suddenly. “The First is in,” Anna chirps. “Locksley has moved up to 49% of the vote, and we’re expecting the number from the Eighth Precinct as well– oh, there they are–”

 

The number next to LOCKSLEY now reads 52%. Regina blinks hard, blinks until tears come to her eyes, until the number moves up to 54% and then 59%, with ninety-four percent of precincts reporting, which means–

 

“A hard-fought battle, but we can finally call it,” Hans says, smiling out at his viewers. “Robin Locksley is the MAF candidate for mayor of Storybrooke!”

 

There’s a dull screaming in her head, in her heart, in the room around her. People are shouting and cheering, are hugging, are grabbing her and swinging her into their embrace. Regina feels dazed, overwhelmed, and she can’t breathe or think or speak. Robin Locksley is hugging her, a little too tight and too low for comfort, and she stands limp in it, immobile, tears slipping down her cheeks and her heart on fire.

 

She catches sight of Emma, a few feet away, as dazed as she is, and she finally extricates herself from the candidate’s arms. Emma catches her eye and it’s as though her blood surges to life, as though the room has fallen quiet and still again but for the throbbing in her veins and Emma’s eyes on her, trapped and uncertain and _alive_. Emma looks at her and a connection between them sparks like electricity, puts every other moment of triumph around them into silent nothingness.

 

Then Neal grasps Emma and tugs her away, plants a kiss on her lips and pulls her into a tight hug. Emma looks back at Regina with a helpless, fearful gaze, and Regina watches in slow misery, in triumph and victory turned to despair and futility; teetering into an abyss as though she’d been tapped gently, the lightest push, and toppled down, down, down.


	10. Chapter 10

**JUNE 11**

_147 Days Until the General Election_

 

Back in freshman year of high school, Emma had been in an ultra-religious foster home where giggling foster sisters had sneaked popular magazines into the house to gawp over. Emma feels a bit like a cover photo of one those magazines today, featuring a snappy headline like _I Kissed A Girl And Now I Can’t Stop Thinking About Her_ or _I Kissed A Girl But We Actually Hate Each Other (Sort Of)_ or _I Kissed A Girl But I’m In A Committed Relationship With Her Brother_ or, perhaps most simply apt, _I Kissed A Girl_.

 

Her lips still feel like they’re burning. Her hands feel– _god,_ Regina had felt so good, soft curves and small in her arms and like she’d fit there perfectly. Emma stands in the middle of Granny’s Diner with her coffee in her hand and remembers again the taste of Regina’s skin, the heat of her kisses, the way she’d groaned when Emma had sucked on her collarbone in that one place that had always been _begging_ for it–

 

“You okay, Em?” Ruby says, brushing past her. “You look a little flushed.” Emma nearly drops her coffee.

 

“Fine,” she says quickly. “I’m fine. Just tired.” They’d been up late last night, everyone high on victory and thrumming with energy. Emma had slept until noon once she’d gotten home, too exhausted to dwell on the _other_ events of the night, which is why they’re all hitting her now.

 

She remembers sitting in one of the chairs in the office, doing shots with Tamara. Ruby had been on her lap for a long stretch of the night, too, which had been _so fun_ to Emma, who had just discovered that she might in fact be attracted to Regina and possibly any other girl in the room. She remembers Regina on the other side of the office, glass in hand and her legs crossed as she’d sat at the edge of a desk and chatted with Marian. She hadn’t looked at Emma once, and Emma had felt her resolve to go over there rise and fall with each drink consumed.

 

Near the end of the night, once enough of the others had drifted off to their homes and beds, Emma had looked up once and seen Regina staring at her, her eyes hot as embers as she’d taken Emma in. Emma had been caught aflame in an instant, transported back to the office when they’d been kissing desperately, and she’d been warm with it, needy and craving as she’d never known she could.

 

She doesn’t know what any of this means. Until yesterday, she’d thought that she was straight– and that she’d disliked Regina. She _does_ dislike Regina, doesn’t she? She isn’t so sure about the rest anymore. She feels sick with guilt and with wanting at once, and she doesn’t know _what_ she wants. Maybe just to taste Regina again, to touch her and–

 

“You look wiped,” Ruby comments, eyebrows raised. “And you didn’t even wake up at six am to work your other job.” She sighs for a moment, leaning back against the counter. “Granny is less than thrilled that we won the campaign,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I mean, she _says_ she’s happy, but I don’t think she can handle the diner on her own anymore.” She looks troubled.

 

Emma frowns at her, sympathetic. “Maybe we can help out, too. There are lots of quiet stretches–”

 

“Not up against Killian Jones, there won’t be,” Ruby says grimly. “Which reminds me. You saw the Whatsapp?”

 

Emma nods. It’s why she’d dragged herself out of bed at all after Neal and Regina had told them all to take the day off. The local news is promising some kind of bombshell endorsement announcement at one pm, and they’re mobilizing. “There’s a chance it could be for us, isn’t there?” Emma points out as they head for campaign headquarters together. “Maybe we just haven’t been told, for some reason, but…” She sighs. Even she knows that it’s a lost cause.

 

Ruby laughs. “Wouldn’t that be nice,” she says, pushing open the door to the office. Emma ducks in behind her, swallowing past a sudden bundle of nerves.

 

Regina is sitting in one of the nearby cubicles, talking to Mulan and Neal, and she turns around when the door opens, hair falling back from her face and eyes startled for a moment before she catches sight of Emma. Emma had thought that she was attractive before, maybe kind of intimidating because of it. She hadn’t identified that feeling in the pit of her stomach for what it is until now.

 

 _Dear generic teen magazine, I’m reevaluating every feeling I’ve had about a girl until the moment we kissed and it’s not looking good._ Because okay, yeah, when she hadn’t known exactly how Regina tastes, it might have been just innocent loathing and a desire to prove herself. Under this new lens of maybe-attracted-to-Regina, it’s…

 

It’s _bad_.

 

Regina’s gaze in the moment that she’d first looked up had been defenseless, that dark gaze wide and alert, vulnerable in a way that Regina so rarely is. Now it hardens, sharpens, Regina untouchable once more, and Emma stares at her for so long that she jumps when Neal says her name. “It’s about to start,” he says. “We’re expecting the worst.” He pats the empty chair beside him, jammed in beside the chair where Regina had brought over, and Emma gulps and goes there anyway.

 

There’s a frisson of excitement she can’t shake at just being in Regina’s proximity now, at–

 

 _Fuck,_ she has to figure this out. Neal is grinning that lopsided smile, his hand reaching over to help her maneuver between chairs, and she’s dating him. She’s dating Regina’s _brother_. There’s no way this ends well even if she wants to–

 

Gripped by the sudden urge to cut and run, she forces herself instead to slip into the chair beside Regina, tripping on Regina’s feet in the process. Regina hisses, “Watch where you’re going,” and Emma looks up to glare at her without thought. They’re close, close enough that she can see flecks of gold in Regina’s brown eyes, that she can feel her warm breath emerging in little bursts, that the scar on Regina’s upper lip is impossibly well-defined–

 

Emma swallows, intensifying her glare until said upper lip curls into an unfriendly smirk, and turns away to Neal. “So how about this announcement, huh?”

 

The TV has been running on mute where it’s mounted on the wall near the entrance, and Neal flicks the remote to turn the sound back on. “We still have a few minutes,” he says. “Regina has some fun horror scenarios, but I don’t think it’ll be so bad. Probably a celebrity endorsement from his Broadway days. He’s already got more star power here than any of these people, so it won’t make a difference in the long run.”

 

“He’s already getting more endorsements that matter,” Tamara points out from her own cubicle. “He has more unions than any candidate of Cora’s should have. And he has the firefighters, the police–”

 

“David Nolan will endorse us,” Neal objects.

 

Tamara gives him a look. “Police that _matter_. I don’t think this announcement changes much beyond landing us in even more shit.”

 

Regina is uncharacteristically silent. Emma shoots her a look and finds her eyes trained on the screen, her teeth pressed into her lower lip. Neal says, “We’ve just gotta keep looking forward. We have a name now. People are paying attention to us and taking us seriously. We aren’t riding any kind of victory wave to the finish line, but if we can mobilize the vote in our demo, we can motor through. There’s no–”

 

“We’re here with Cora Mills for an exciting political endorsement!” Hans says from the television, and Neal falls silent. They glance at each other uncertainly. For all Cora’s machinations, there’s no _way_ that she’d put her campaign ahead of appearances, and it doesn’t look good, pitting herself against her daughter.

 

Maybe– and for a moment, Emma can feel a flash of hope, an instant of elation that comes from the idea of a sudden boon– maybe Cora’s switching sides, supporting them after Regina has proven herself. Maybe Cora’s going to endorse _them_.

 

She peers over at Regina, whose teeth are still digging into her lip. Her expression hasn’t changed, but her eyes are resigned, are as dulled as they’d been after the dinner they’d endured at the Gold-Mills home. “Hello,” Cora says, smiling down from on high where she’s projected on the screen. “As one of the founding members of Gold-Mills Consulting and a lifelong resident of this town, I’ve always taken an interest in how Storybrooke is run. When I look at the candidates for mayor, I look for someone with integrity, with energy, with an understanding of what our town needs to prosper.”

 

“I’ve never understood why she never put herself in charge,” Marian muses. “She could have this town eating out of her hands.”

 

Neal snorts. “One town? Cora wants to run the world.”

 

Tamara shushes them, eyes narrowed as Cora speaks again. “We’ve built this town from a rundown shantytown to the flourishing, beautiful idyll that we call home today. And for that reason, it’s imperative that we elect a mayor who shares our values and our appreciation for Storybrooke.”

 

She clears her throat, and Emma knows with a sinking feeling exactly what she’s going to say. She darts another glance to Regina, who has closed her eyes and is listening in silence. Cora says, “Killian Jones grew up in this town. He played in our parks and went to our schools. He spent a summer tending to neighborhood pools, and has a boat he’s treasured since he was a teenager. And he’s one of our greatest success stories. Who better than Killian Jones for mayor?”

 

Mulan crumples up a paper and throws it with stunning precision at the screen. Onscreen, Anna says, “I have to say, this is a surprising endorsement. Your daughter, Regina Mills, is deputy campaign manager for Robin Locksley’s campaign, isn’t she?”

 

Cora smiles, practiced and cool, and Emma reaches for Regina without thinking. Their hands bump beneath the armrests of their chairs, skin brushing against skin and pausing, and Emma has to remind herself how to breathe. “I commend my daughter for taking such an active interest in her civic duties,” she says. “And a practice campaign is a wonderful way to learn more about politics. Regina is a student at Yale, studying political science and history. This has been a delightful hands-on experience for her.” She smiles, dismissive, and Emma can feel the tension in Regina’s hand, the way it presses against the chair in silent fury.

 

“But I’m afraid that I don’t think that Storybrooke deserves to be my daughter’s little experiment for a full mayoral term. And the candidate she’s chosen is unacceptable. For god’s sake, he isn’t even American,” Cora says, her lip curling in that way Regina’s mastered so well. It’s much less attractive on her. “An out-of-touch foreigner who has no connections to the true Storybrooke is hardly a candidate I can support. I would have loved to support Regina’s term project, but I can’t allow my other child– this beautiful town– to pay the price for her games.”

 

“You have a second daughter, you hag,” Marian says at the screen. Neal snorts, but he’s looking worriedly at Regina. Emma keeps her hand in place, out of sight, and Regina might not have reacted to it but she hasn’t pushed Emma away, either. “She’s insufferable.”

 

“She’s redefining our narrative, _again_ ,” Mulan says, glaring at the screen. “Selling us as some social experiment of Regina’s. Like hell.”

 

Anna is asking questions again, pushing the _human interest_ part of the story. “Regina and I are still quite close,” Cora says, smiling thinly at the camera. “We don’t allow politics to interfere with our relationship. Of course, I wish she’d set this aside for when she’s a bit older, but you know how children can be.” She sighs, a long-suffering mother with nothing but fondness for her troublesome daughter.

 

Emma is standing before she can think through it, fists clenched. “We fight back,” she says, and she isn’t thinking reasonably, can’t think through her building anger. “We can take her on. She’s all smoke and mirrors, just like her candidate, and–”

 

“No,” Regina says calmly from beside her. Emma stops, staring at her. Regina is still expressionless, and she hasn’t torn her eyes away from Cora yet. “We don’t engage. She wants us to be angry. She wants us to react like angry children. We don’t engage.”

 

“She attacked _you_ ,” Emma says, twisting so she can watch Regina. “She’s trying to minimize everything you’ve done here. How do we not engage?” Already, the urge to defend and protect Regina is rising within her, as it has a dozen times before now without the context of _kissing Regina yesterday_ . She swallows back that thought, and the reminder that all of this is _bad_.

 

Regina shakes her head. “I’ve been attacking her for weeks, too. I’ve been using the Mills name to get people to listen to me. This was inevitable. Let’s leave it.” She stands suddenly, her hand brushing against Emma’s again. This time, she snatches it away. “I’m going to get out some emails to our financiers. We can’t let them get gun-shy because my mother has thrown her hat into the ring.” She strides past them, the picture of cool confidence, and Emma watches her in consternation.

 

The office door is closed, Regina shifting out of sight of the big window, and Emma marches toward it. Neal says her name but she ignores it, walks to the window just in time to see Regina sink to the floor in the corner of the office, her face burying in her hands as her shoulders shake with silent sobs.

 

* * *

 

It’s…frankly, it’s _idiotic_ , letting Mother control her moods so easily. She’d been triumphant this morning, overwhelmed with their victory and ready to forge on ahead, and now she feels as though all the hope has been drained from the room. Mother had poked little holes into their ship and stepped away, letting them sink on their own time, and Regina knows just enough about Mother to be prepared for this twist.

 

She can feel it all weighing down on her now, the inevitability of defeat when she’s up against Mother. She hadn’t thought Mother would take such an active hand in this, not when Regina is on the other side. She had imagined the worst– a carefully orchestrated defeat that would humiliate Regina without compromising her image, a motivation for Robin to drop out unexpectedly…not her mother on local television, informing the town that Regina is a bratty upstart without any real investment in Storybrooke.

 

And throughout this new low had been Emma Swan beside her, smooth skin pressed to hers in some kind of tentative comfort, and Regina had been just desperate enough to let it go on. _Emma_ , who is absolutely off-limits, who Neal _loves_ , who had kissed Regina yesterday in this very room and lit her skin on fire. Regina shivers, blinking back ridiculous tears, because she doesn’t _care_ about Emma Swan. She’s kissed plenty of women, has had plenty of encounters that had been somewhere in the realm of as passionate as that kiss, maybe, and she hadn’t dwelled on them after like this.

 

Emma had wiggled under her skin with that sheepish smile and the glint of defiance in her eyes and the way she manages to make everyone _care_ , from strangers at the beach to the kids whom everyone had written off to–

 

 _To Neal and the campaign_ , Regina tells herself forcefully. Emma is so utterly off-limits that Regina shouldn’t even be thinking about her at all. Even Neal aside, Emma is the last kind of woman Regina would ever be caught dead with. She’s crass and obnoxious and she has no concept of boundaries, and she’d run away if Regina ever initiated anything.

 

Not that Regina _would_ . _Neal’s girlfriend_ , she reminds herself, and she struggles to return to brooding about her mother instead. The world is falling down around her, and she has to pick her battles.

 

Right now, she has to deal with Mother.

 

They’ve gotten a few donors just by virtue of her last name and Neal’s, and Regina knows it. Except perhaps Kathryn’s father, there’s no one at the country club who will cross Cora to support Regina now. The people in town with money won’t fritter it away on the Locksley campaign, and the ones without have little to spare. They need powerful allies, but even the unions have offered endorsements without funding behind it.

 

Too many groups still see them as a lost cause, no one worth paying for. They need– they need some kind of event, if Ruby has any ideas, or Emma–

 

She sits up straight, ejecting thoughts of Emma from her mind, and the door cracks open.

 

Neal pokes his head in. “Hiya, kiddo,” he says, and she glowers at him with red eyes that he ignores. He shuts the door and walks to her, sliding down against the wall so he’s sitting behind her. “The Queen Bitch got to you, didn’t she?”

 

“No,” Regina lies, and Neal slips an arm around her, warm and comforting. “I’m just thinking about what we do next.”

 

“Tamara has some ideas,” Neal says. “Leave it to us. You stay put, okay? Anna called. They’re interested in having you on the show this evening with a response to Cora’s appearance. But I don’t want you stressing yourself out before that.” He grins at her glare. “That’s why you made me the boss, didn’t you?”

 

“I made you the boss to be our token white man,” Regina retorts. “Not to give me orders.” But she can feel her mood picking up already. Neal has always been a calming influence on her, since she’d been a kid. She still remembers when they’d first met. She’d been three or four at most, and there had been a dinner party where she’d been allowed to attend for the first time. Gold had gotten there early, and Regina had come downstairs, too excited to stay quiet in her room, and had knocked over a priceless vase with her dress.

 

Mother had been livid. Regina had been sent to her room without dinner, the quiet click of the lock in the doorknob her assurance that she wouldn’t be allowed to leave anytime soon. Regina had desperately needed to use the bathroom, and she’d known that the punishment for having an accident in a dress she couldn’t remove would be worse than this. She’d cried, legs glued together and curled up on the floor, and then there’d been a scraping in the lock and a nine-year-old boy with a grin on his face had stood behind it.

 

She’d nearly bowled him over as she’d run to the bathroom, but he’d sat with her after, had leaned against the wall and showed her a little puzzle in his pocket that he’d been trying to solve. She’d tackled it with grim determination for what had felt only like a few minutes, and by the time she’d handed it back to him, the dinner had been over and Mrs. Gold had been calling Neal downstairs.

 

A couple of years after that, Mrs. Gold had disappeared, and Neal and his father had become fixtures in Regina’s house. Mother had liked to pit Zelena and Regina against each other, had ignored Zelena and favored Regina until Zelena had despised Regina for it, and Neal had been the first older kid in her life who’d seemed to care about her. Neal had been there to listen when Regina had been furious with Mother, when Daddy had divorced Mother and Mother had still gained custody, to listen to every tearful story that Regina had told him. Regina had reacted with the fierce loyalty of a guard dog, had seen herself as Neal’s protection against the world. Neal had been good and kind and soft, and Regina had been sure that the world would tear him apart if she hadn’t been there to stop it.

 

She thinks, sometimes, that they haven’t changed all that much in the past twenty years. Neal is still her anchor in the world, the one person there to listen to her, and it’s never made her feel more guilty than it does now, when she has to keep something from him. _She’s_ the piece of the world who might tear him down now, if he ever finds out what happened with Emma yesterday.

 

She can’t. She won’t. “Well,” Neal says, and he tugs her a little closer until she’s resting her head against his shoulder, until he can brush a kiss to the top of her head. “As your token white guy slash boss, I’m telling you to take some quiet time. Do you want to do the interview tonight?” Regina nods. “So think about what you want to say. How are you going to answer your mother?”

 

Regina hesitates. Neal’s arm tightens around her, comforting, and Regina feels an uneasy surge of guilt. “I don’t know if I want to answer her,” she says finally. “Because she’s beginning with the assumption that what she wants is good for Storybrooke, and I can’t agree with that.”

 

“No?” Neal says.

 

“Of course not.” Regina stares at the wall opposite them and tries desperately hard not to remember her back hitting it as Emma had pushed her mid-kiss. “I think…I think what Storybrooke needs more than anything is unity. And that doesn’t mean stealing away money from the wealthy and distributing it to the poor. It means everyone putting in what we can, together, to make our town more unified. To make the lines between us more blurred, to give us all happy, prosperous lives without the people in charge drawing those lines even more.”

 

“Go on,” Neal encourages, and Regina furrows her brow and thinks about what she wants to say.

 

“There’s no reason why we can’t all enjoy everything this town has to offer. And part of that is in structural changes. Forget the _honorable thing to do_ . I brainstormed this campaign because I want to live in a town where we can all be proud of every part of it. Where my…where our kids can go to school without knowing already which children they won’t mix with and exactly where they’re going to be in twelve years. I want people to be able to go out at night without being afraid of being mugged _or_ of being arrested for existing in the wrong side of town. I want Storybrooke to be a family,” Regina finishes, and then exhales. “That’s what I want to say.”

 

Neal leans back against the wall, grinning. “And that’s why you’re my hero,” he says. “Look at you go.”

 

Regina scoffs, flushing. “I’m going to sound pretentious and ridiculous on camera,” she says, and then she elbows him hard when she catches the rest of his comment. “And I’m not your _hero_. Shut up.”

 

Neal squints at her. “Are you kidding? You’re a dynamo, Regina. I’m an Instagram model who hitched myself to the right person when I was nine. I was a _smart_ nine-year-old,” he muses, and Regina elbows him again. “Good instincts on people. I still have good instincts on people.”

 

“Wendy Darling. Tina Bell. Morraine–”

 

“Emma Swan,” Neal counters, and Regina’s heart leaps and falls with crushing speed.

 

She forces herself to smirk instead of allowing Neal to see the growing pit in her stomach. “Exactly,” she says. She feels sick, thinking about Emma now, when Neal is sitting with her and cheering her up.

 

Neal scoffs. “Please,” he says. “She’s a treasure.” She _is_ , and it takes all Regina has to stop herself from agreeing with him.

 

“And yet, we can’t cash her in to fund our campaign now that we’ve lost our big donors,” Regina says instead, wry.

 

Neal laughs. “I bet she’s gotten us more voters than any one donor,” he says.

 

“Ah, yes. The delinquent vote,” Regina says, but she pulls away, standing up and feeling a flicker of relief to be away from Neal for a moment to breathe. This room feels like it still might have their imprint on it, like he might stay here too long and realize what Regina had done with Emma in here. She can’t talk about Emma with Neal, not when her heart pounds at the thought of her, not when she’s certain that every complicated emotion about Emma must be written across her face.

 

She can’t imagine how he’d take it, if he finds out what they’d done. He’d be gutted, betrayed, as destroyed as he’d been when he’d stumbled sightlessly into her room after his mother had left and she’d hugged him helplessly. Neal is in _love_ with Emma, and Regina had been attracted and thoughtless about it, had put herself first when she’d sworn to be Neal’s anchor as much as he is hers. If Neal figures it out–

 

But Neal only blinks around once they’re both standing and says, “This office is a _mess_ after that party,” and Regina flushes red and turns away.

 

* * *

 

Neal is out for the day, off with Tamara on some scheme that they haven’t shared with everyone else. Regina is on mandatory in-office break, which leaves her surly and more irritable than usual. “We need a plan of action,” she says, glaring around the office.

 

“No,” Marian shoots back. She’s with Mulan, heads together as they outline something new for the campaign. “ _We_ need to do our jobs. _You_ need to breathe.”

 

“I’m breathing just fine,” Regina says sharply, which makes Emma looks up in surprise from where she’s getting some water from the cooler. Marian is usually spared Regina’s worst moods. Regina must really be in it this time.

 

Marian doesn’t seem fazed by Regina’s mood. “Your mother just went on TV to try to tear you down,” she points out reasonably. “It wouldn’t kill you to step out and take a break.”

 

Regina scowls at her. “Why do you think I give a _fuck_ what my mother says? Do you think any of this is new? I don’t need a _break_ . I need to work. We all do, because we’re going to lose all our donors and we have no way of bringing anyone back, so excuse _me_ if I’m the only one seeing straight.”

 

She whirls around, storming toward the cooler, and it’s a mark of how agitated she is that she doesn’t see Emma until they’re shifting around each other, squeezing past each other in the narrow space between cubicles. Regina’s eyes flash and Emma is frozen, unmoving, at once very aware of the fact that Regina’s chest is pressed against her, her lips close enough to kiss. “Would you get out of my way?” Regina hisses. She’s breathing hard, and Emma stares, distracted by the sheer fire in her eyes and the lines of her cheekbones. Her lips are painted a deep red, and Emma is caught by them, can feel a deepening _something_ stirring in her belly.

 

Regina shifts and her leg is suddenly pressed against the split in Emma’s jeans. They both let out a strained noise at once, and Emma swallows it back. Regina looks horrified with herself, and she shoves past Emma, _hard_ , and leaves Emma nearly toppling onto the floor.

 

Emma catches herself on the cubicle wall and darts a glance around the office. Jacinda is watching them, eyebrows raised. Mulan’s eyes are fixed onto her desk. Marian looks amused. Sabine says, lips quirking, “Regina, you have a water bottle sitting in your cubicle.”

 

Regina lets out a huff and then heads right back for where Emma’s standing. Emma ducks out of the way this time, biting her lip and trying not to stare at where Regina’s lips are still wet from her drink. “Ruby!” Regina barks out suddenly. “Are you _asleep_?”

 

Ruby jerks up from where she’d been dozing at her desk. “Sorry, Regina,” she says, rubbing at her eyes. “Long morning.”

 

“Long morning?” Regina echoes. “You had off this morning. So you’d be _ready_ for crunch time. We need you on board. Especially now.” Ruby is blinking at her, still half-asleep, and it seems only to make Regina angrier. “What do you have planned to get back our donors? Did you just…watch that broadcast and then take a _nap_?”

 

Emma steps in, fed up with Regina. “Calm _down_ ,” she barks out. Ruby looks bewildered. “She’s doing the best she can. You know she has to work the diner–”

 

“Then she shouldn’t be here!” Regina bites out. “I don’t need half-hearted attendance. I need–”

 

“You _need_ to back down.” The others are watching them, everyone on edge at the tension in the room. It reminds Emma of her first day in the office, when Regina had been barking out orders and everyone had taken them in silence. It had taken a while for Emma to see the reason why anyone would _listen_ to Regina, but Regina has also cooled down since then, has been a tiny bit less of an asshole, and it’s jarring to see it again now.

 

Regina looks furious with her. “You need to not tell me what to do when I’m the only one here who seems to _care–_ ”

 

“Oh, like hell. She’s here because she does care! Because we all care!” Emma shoots back. “And you need to stop taking out your anger at your mother on everyone here!” Ruby is shaking her head vigorously at Emma, wide-eyed. Jacinda, whom Emma really has to talk to, is watching them consideringly.

 

Regina takes a step toward her, threatening and close, teeth almost bared in her fury. “I _said_ , I don’t _care_ about what my mother says.” She’s like a china doll, perfectly crafted but ready to be shattered by a few hard taps. Also, devastatingly beautiful, and Emma swallows, her heart racing with both anger and something else.

 

Marian interjects, gentle but firm, “Regina, I think you need to take a walk.” Regina stares at her, betrayed, and Marian murmurs, “It isn’t a sinking ship until the captain starts sounding alarms,” a chastisement that seems to get through to Regina.

 

Regina nods sharply, her jaw clenched and her eyes dark, and she storms past Emma to the front door, yanking it open and slamming it shut behind her. Emma turns around on automatic, trailing after her, and Mulan says, sounding worried, “Maybe give her some space–”

 

“Let her go,” Jacinda says, and she gives Emma a nod of acknowledgement that has Emma flushing. Emma ducks out the door and glances around, finding Regina sitting on a bench in front of the campaign headquarters, hands on her lap and eyes staring straight ahead.

 

“Hey,” Emma says, a bit more subdued.

 

Regina doesn’t answer, and Emma sits down carefully next to her, hands on her lap. “It really, really sucks that your mother did that,” she says tentatively. Regina doesn’t respond. “I thought she wanted you to be president or something.”

 

Regina speaks, her voice dulled now. “Not at the expense of her own plans,” she says, and she sounds very tired. “I went off script again, and she _hates_ that. It doesn’t matter,” she adds swiftly, as though she’s just remembered her party line. “What matters is dealing with the aftermath. And regaining our donors.”

 

“So we do something ritzy,” Emma suggests. “Throw a party or something that’ll bring them in. An auction? Something upscale and classy that shows that we’re…that we value them and care about whatever they care about. Plus, ticket fees.” Regina is silent, and Emma prompts, “We’re good at taking back our narrative. Let’s do it again here.”

 

Regina’s fingers are digging into her knees, and she shuts her eyes and says, half in a whisper, “I wish…I wish that I could stop seeing her smug face when we lose every single time I close my eyes.” Her voice is shaky, the hostility gone, and Emma reaches for her hand almost daringly. She pries it away from Regina’s knee, squeezing it in her own hand, and Regina doesn’t pull away.

 

“Then keep your eyes open,” Emma whispers, and Regina turns suddenly, her gaze startled as she stares at Emma. Emma forgets to breathe for a moment, sits very still with Regina’s face centimeters away, those flecks of gold in her eyes brighter than ever.

 

It takes all she has not to lean in again, the reminder of _Neal’s sister_ and _probably not interested_ and _unexpectedly gay_ surging in all at once and quieted by the look on Regina’s face. Emma clears her throat and breathes, with some effort, “And apologize to Ruby.”

 

Regina laughs, just a breath, and says, “I will. I know she’s doing what she…” Her voice trails off, and Emma notices suddenly that they’re sitting on a bench together, Regina’s hand in hers, their faces nearly touching. Regina scoots back as though she’s been stung, stumbling to her feet, her hand wrenched from Emma’s.

 

She makes a beeline back for the campaign headquarters without another look back, and Emma says to no one at all, “That was a walk?”

 

* * *

 

Regina has already apologized to Ruby and the others and sequestered herself in the candidate’s office by the time Emma makes it back inside. Emma swallows, glancing over at her desk and then squaring her jaw and heading after Regina.

 

A lot of today feels like just _heading after Regina_ , in a weird limbo where they sort of hate each other, sort of don’t, and sort of kissed yesterday. Emma doesn’t know which of those is the reason why she can’t seem to stay away from Regina, but she is helpless but to follow when Regina moves, desperate to remain in Regina’s orbit.

 

Regina doesn’t look up when Emma pushes the door open. She’s flipping through papers on a desk that is still a little too empty, a few too many items still on the floor. Emma is left with the sudden memory of Regina sweeping everything off the desk as she’d pressed Emma against it, the memory of hot kisses against her neck and Regina’s eyes dilated and needy.

 

She remembers, too, holding Regina so tightly that it had been almost like an embrace, and it had felt so right that her world had shaken on its axis. “Can we talk?” she says, glancing out at the office door window for a moment. She catches Mulan, then Jacinda, looking back at them, and swallows.

 

“No,” Regina says flatly. “In here? Like this?” She looks up for a moment, just to gesture at the mess on the floor, and Emma winces. “Do you really think that’s wise?”

 

“We have an audience this time,” Emma points out, motioning with her eyes behind her. “No risk of…you know.”

 

Regina grits her teeth but doesn’t have a comeback, which Emma takes as permission to go on. “First of all,” Emma says carefully, “I’m really sorry about that time I blew up at you when you suggested I might like girls.” She waits. Regina is still looking at the papers on the desk, unmoving, and Emma chews on her lip. “That was supposed to be the joke to break the ice, so we are not in good shape right now.”

 

Finally, a quiet snort. Emma forges onward. “And I think…everything is going to be awkward between us if we don’t talk this out. I don’t _want_ to– I mean, I’m more of a cut-and-run kind of girl than a talk-things-out one, truthfully, and…” She stops, helplessly frustrated at her own babbling. It’s _true_ , she isn’t one to push– except when it comes to Regina, for some reason.

 

Regina, whose jaw has tightened so much that Emma is suddenly worried it might crack. She clears her throat, and she says, her voice cool, “Don’t worry. It never happened.”

 

Emma stares at her, feeling as though the floor had dropped out from beneath her. She doesn’t know _why_ , because of course it can’t have ever happened. Of course that had been what was going to come next. Regina doesn’t even _like_ her, let alone want to do…whatever it is they’d done together last night. Regina’s _brother_ is the boyfriend Emma has been studiously not dwelling on for the past day.

 

She doesn’t know what else she’d expected, except that this crushing feeling isn’t– can’t be– she _can’t_ be feeling it right now. She manages a smile at Regina, who is still looking determinedly at the papers on the desk, and she says, “Yeah. Yeah, it never happened. Neal and I…” She swallows past the lump in her throat and can’t finish the sentence, Regina still staring down at those damned papers. “Uh. I wouldn’t want this to get in the way of our sort-of friendship thing we have going on,” she says instead, offering a stilted smile.

 

Regina looks up at last, and Emma can’t read the look on her face at all. It’s as though she’s plastered a mask across it, as though she’s shut down any bare emotions that might leak through. “We’re not friends,” she says. It isn’t cold. It’s matter-of-fact, a statement of unvarnished truth, and that burns almost as much as it had to suggest the friendship in the first place.

 

Emma flinches. Regina’s mask slips for a moment, a flash of regret that has Emma rooted to the spot, and Regina turns away and moves to stand up. “My brother and Tamara are back,” she says, and Emma jerks around, looks out the office window at their returning colleagues.

 

Neal has his arm around Tamara’s shoulders, both of them jubilant, and they move aside when they enter to show their prize: a woman, standing bemusedly in the center of the entrance area. “Hello,” she says. “I’m Shirin Jasmine. I’ve been following your campaign with some interest.”

 

Regina takes a cautious step forward, her eyes scanning the woman’s face as though for some clue as to her intentions. “You aren’t from around here,” she says slowly.

 

Shirin shakes her head. “No,” she agrees. “But I saw those clips of Cora Mills circulating. I’ve never seen her get so publicly involved in a campaign this early.” She shakes Regina’s hand firmly. “So let’s make her sweat a little more.” She pulls an envelope out of her pocket, hands it over to Regina. “I like what I’ve seen of you,” she says. “There are many of us out there who do. And if it can be done in Storybrooke, imagine the kind of changes we can make in the rest of Maine.”

 

“You want to…” Regina stares at the envelope, opens it, removes the check inside with her eyes wide. “This is enough for Emma’s donor party,” she says, gaping at it. “You don’t even _live_ here.”

 

Shirin smiles. “My father is one of Maine’s state senators,” she explains. “We’ve been watching you very carefully. I see a remarkable future ahead for this campaign team.” Regina still looks at a loss, as though this is too much to comprehend today. “Take it,” Shirin says kindly, and then she looks up at Tamara, nodding briskly. “And stay in touch about that donor party, won’t you? I have some thoughts about the guest list.”

 

She walks toward the door, nodding again to Tamara and Neal, and Emma blurts out, “How did you _find_ her?”

 

Neal grins, grabbing her hand and spinning her into his arms. “I had a hunch,” he says. “Cora has plenty of power, yeah. But she’s also got plenty of enemies. And the people who watch Cora are starting to pay attention to us now.” He catches her, hands on her waist, and Emma feels suddenly sick about their proximity. “Everything’s coming up Cassidy!”

 

“I think you mean Locksley,” Regina says dryly, but there’s a tinge to her voice. Maybe Emma’s imagining it, maybe she isn’t, but she turns, helpless as ever when confronted by Regina’s presence. Regina is watching them, her eyes glued to where Neal’s hands are on Emma’s waist.

 

She senses Emma’s eyes on her and her gaze flickers back up, holding onto Emma’s for a charged moment. Emma can’t breathe again, can feel Regina’s eyes like a buzzing in her ears and below her skin, and she trembles beneath her gaze–

 

Then Marian bumps into Regina and Regina’s gaze is jolted from hers. Emma blinks, returns to the present and the celebration and the pall of _it never happened–_

 

_Yeah. Fucking. Right._


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to be online on Mondays and Tuesdays for most of September and I'm going to be posting a short WIP on Thursdays, so I'm going to post on Monday this week and next to transition to Sunday updates for September! 
> 
> I hope you like your gays useless, because these two sure are this week. :')

**JUNE 14**

_ 144 Days Until the General Election _

 

“Okay, so here’s what I’m thinking,” Emma says, standing at the front of the room. She can feel Regina’s eyes on her, expectant, and she stumbles over her words, suddenly flustered. “Uh. I mean, I guess it’s up to all of you, but–” 

 

Regina says, very patiently, “Emma, we want to hear what you’re thinking. That’s why you’re standing up there.” Regina veers back and forth lately, surprisingly supportive at times and snippy and standoffish at others. Emma isn’t quite sure what triggers the bad moods, but the good ones do all kinds of  _ things _ to her. 

 

Not that the bad ones don’t, too. Being around Regina is an exercise in restraint, in acting as though everything is  _ fine _ and she’s  _ fine _ and they’re–

 

She gulps and tries again. “I think it has to be different,” she says. “An auction is a nice idea, but we don’t have enough sponsors to make it up to par with what the country club expectations are. And…so I was thinking about a dinner thing. With ballgowns and shit. A dance floor.” She winces. She isn’t selling her idea well. It had made more sense when she’d talked it out with Ruby earlier, where she’s manning the diner. “I don’t know. It was the most pretentious thing I could think of.” She’d gone through every movie she’s seen in years in her head, mostly the famous period pieces, and she’d concluded that this is the place where country clubgoers most likely belong.

 

“Dinner dance fundraiser,” Regina echoes thoughtfully. From her mouth, it sounds almost reasonable. “It sounds like the kind of thing that Mary Margaret Blanchard would salivate over.” That seems a negative, and Emma tenses, gritting her teeth and waiting for the ultimate rejection. But instead, Regina smiles. “I  _ love  _ it. It’s got that quaint little feel to it that we want–” 

 

Sabine says what Emma’s thinking, which is, “How the hell is that  _ quaint _ ? What world are you people from?” Regina shrugs helplessly. Marian laughs. 

 

Jacinda puts up a hand. “I don’t have a ballgown.” 

 

Emma looks at her, incredulous. “Do you think I do? But I was thinking we could wear tuxes, maybe. Something snappy that we can rent on the budget.” 

 

“Regina has a ballgown,” Neal offers, smug when Regina turns to glare at him. “She has a whole closet of them. Enough for everyone.”

 

“Not me,” Sabine points out, wrinkling her nose. “Unless I crouch.” 

 

“Tuxes,” Regina says, jabbing a finger at the rest of them. “If you have a ballgown or similarly formal dress, wear it. I will be happy to loan mine out to Neal and anyone else who wants to wear one, but I warn you that they were all selected by my mother. The more of us who blend in, the better.” 

 

She takes a breath. “And we’re going to need a standout speech to rally these people. They don’t want to beat the system. They want the system intact because they like where they are. But they don’t like my mother, and they do want Storybrooke to be safer and love the idea of  _ town unity _ . So we play on that.” She turns her gaze to the side of the room, where Robin is seated, rubbing his chin as he listens to them. “What do you think?” Regina says. 

 

Robin shrugs expansively. “I trust you, Regina,” he says simply. “Just give me the words.” 

 

Regina looks frustrated at that. “It can’t just be me or Mulan handing over words to you,” she says. “This one has to resonate with the audience, and it won’t resonate if you aren’t feeling it. Isn’t there something you feel passionate about?” 

 

“He feels passionate about fixing this town,” Marian interjects.

 

Robin bobs his head. “You heard the lady.” 

 

Regina shakes her head, her frustration growing. Emma gets it. Robin is…more an idea than a person, much of the time. He’s only in the office for meetings, and he obligingly shows up to campaign events but never much more than that. Marian is usually around, but more often than not, it’s Regina and Marian doing the work and Robin swooping in to be their figurehead. It’s worked until now, as far as Emma can tell, but it seems to be straining at the seams now.

 

Robin must sense that, because he says, “Why don’t we work on this together?” He smiles warmly at Regina. “We can talk through the main points and see what it is that makes me most persuasive.” 

 

And there’s  _ that _ , and Emma swallows back unearned trepidation at it. Regina nods, a little uncertain, and glances at Marian, who smiles encouragingly. “That sounds like the best idea,” Marian says. “There’s a lot riding on this speech being successful. I’ll pick up Roland from school today. You work with Regina.” 

 

Robin isn’t looking at her. He’s still smiling at Regina, who is looking down, scrolling through her phone and looking mildly uncomfortable. “We make a good team,” Robin says, and he waits until Regina lifts her head at last to give him a brief smile. “Let’s get to the office now and get started.” 

 

Tamara nods briskly. “I’ll talk to the club about renting out their space.” 

 

“Somewhere different,” Neal suggests. “They all go to the club all the time. If we’re going for quaint–” 

 

“The superstore,” Emma blurts out, and they turn to stare at her. She bites her lip. “I’ve been inside. They have a huge empty section where they used to sell patio furniture, but no one who buys patio furniture from a superstore has a patio in this town, so…” She shrugs, self-conscious. “I met some of the kids who work there on primary day. We can get in touch with the regional manager there and see about renting it out one evening, and we can rent furniture and kind of…show off its potential.” 

 

Regina’s brow furrows. “It doesn’t exactly have a ballroom floor,” she points out, but she nods slowly. “But I think we can make it work. If they’re coming to our little fundraiser, they’re already expecting something unconventional. And if we pull this off, they’ll be impressed.” 

 

“We will,” Emma says firmly, and she believes it, even as butterflies erupt in her stomach. Ruby is more and more distracted in the office, guilty at leaving her grandmother to fend for herself. This is Emma’s project, through and through, and all their major donations for the rest of the campaign are riding on it. “We can set it up to wow the donors. And as long as our candidate impresses them, too–” 

 

Robin rises, an arm sliding around Regina, and Regina straightens, her smile practiced. “We’re on it,” Robin says. “When have you ever known Regina to do any less than stellar work?” 

 

Emma doesn’t smile back. Robin’s grin falters. Regina’s eyes narrow. “Never,” Emma says. Regina’s eyes are still narrowed, tiny arrows puncturing Emma’s skin until she can feel them as potent as an embrace. Emma clears her throat. “There’s someone I think might be able to help us,” she says with reluctance. Regina isn’t going to like this at  _ all _ . “I mean, it’s up to you, but as far as the contingent within the town who doesn’t want Jones to win–” 

 

Regina heaves a sigh. “Just call her,” she says. “Don’t make me talk to her.” She pulls away from Robin, heading to the office, and Emma watches her go with trepidation. Robin shuts the door behind them, and Emma watches through the big office window as Regina gestures to the other side of the desk and sits down gingerly. Robin sits, saying something that has Regina nodding mechanically.

 

Emma really,  _ really  _ doesn’t like this.

 

She has work to do. She tracks down the number she needs from Ruby, and dials Mary Margaret’s cell. “It’s Emma Swan,” she says. “How’s it going?” 

 

“Emma!” Mary Margaret sounds delighted that she’s calling. She had called Robin after the primary to offer her help, an offer politely ignored by everyone involved. Her concession speech had been more about their campaign than about her own. For all her flaws, she does seem genuinely supportive, and she’s ecstatic at the offer. “Oh, of course I’ll rally my people! And all of my father’s old crowd– they spend most of their time on cruises these days, but their children– I would love to do anything I can!” she chatters into the phone, and Emma only has to make some marginal sounds to keep her going. 

 

She’s watching the candidate’s office window as Mary Margaret thinks aloud about who might be interested in their cause. Robin has gotten up and is hovering behind Regina, a hand on her shoulder. Regina sits stiffly, eyes fixed on her paper, and Emma grits her teeth and says, “Yes, that sounds great,” into the phone.

 

“I want to help in any way I can,” Mary Margaret says earnestly. “I know Regina hates me, but I respect her vision here. I knew she was something special when I taught her,” she says, and she sounds dreamy at the thought of it. “She’s going to go far here.” 

 

“She isn’t running,” Emma reminds her, though she tends to share the same belief. Regina says something in the office, standing up, a careful distance from Robin. He sits back down. Emma exhales. “Listen, why don’t I have Sabine send you an email? She’s going to be working on a guest list for the party, and she’s going to want this list from you.” 

 

“Of course,” Mary Margaret says, and Emma hangs up distractedly, making her way to Sabine and Jacinda’s corner. She updates Sabine, glancing over to the candidate’s office again and again until Jacinda says, “If you want to talk to her, all you have to do is knock.” 

 

Emma grimaces at her sly tone. “No. That’s not what I–” She bites her lip. “Are she and the Locksleys close? I mean, I know that she and Marian are close, but Robin…is that, like, the same dynamic as she has with Neal?” It doesn’t  _ look  _ like it, not from the outside. Even if she hadn’t known the background, she would have assumed that Regina and Neal were siblings from their interactions. They hadn’t come with this prickling worry she has creeping up her spine every time she sees Robin with Regina in that office, a little too close as Regina focuses on something else. 

 

Jacinda’s eyes clear up and soften, and she gives Emma a nod that’s almost appreciative. “No,” she says. “Not as far as I know. Regina spends a lot of time at their house, but she really only ever talked about Marian and Roland before the campaign.” She glances at the door again, then at Marian, who is at the door with her coat on as she chats with Mulan.

 

“Right.” Emma squares her jaw, watching the office window carefully. “Yeah. I’m…”  She surges forward, step after step, and raps on the office door. 

 

Regina looks up, a flicker of alarm in her eyes that vanishes when she sees Emma. Emma pushes the door open, sparing Robin a tight smile. He doesn’t look fazed at her coolness. “I need Regina for a few minutes,” she says. “Blanchard had some thoughts.” 

 

She waits, but Robin shows no sign of leaving. He blinks after a protracted moment of the three of them waiting in silence, and then he says, “Oh, you’d like to…” He gestures at the room. “In private.” 

 

“Yeah,” Emma says. It’s a little short, and Regina glances at her sharply, a quiet chastisement. Emma ignores her, glaring at Robin until he inclines his head, a hand settling on Regina’s back for a moment as he leaves. 

 

“You don’t have to let him do that, you know,” Emma says bluntly once he’s gone.

 

Regina blinks at her, her eyes narrowing. “Do what?” she says. It sounds like a warning, like Emma’s on the verge of a line she shouldn’t cross. 

 

She crosses it anyway, because she’s never been good with rules. “Touch you all the time,” she says. “Make you uncomfortable. He has no right–” 

 

“Emma.” Regina’s voice is low and dangerous. “You can’t be implying what I think you’re implying.” 

 

Emma spreads her hands defensively. “Look, I’m not saying he’s done–” 

 

“No,” Regina says, and her voice is more urgent, sharper. “You  _ can’t  _ be implying that. You absolutely can  _ not  _ be saying something like that about the candidate.” Emma stares at her, brow furrowing as she struggles to piece together Regina’s panic. “Those kind of rumors  _ stick _ , you absolute– you  _ idiot _ – tell me you haven’t told anyone your  _ delusional _ little theory.” 

 

“Jacinda. Sort of,” Emma admits, and Regina lets out a strangled little sound. “And I don’t think that you’d be this upset if I didn’t have a point.” 

 

“It doesn’t  _ matter  _ if you have a point,” Regina snaps, her eyes burning. She’s angry again. They’ve had a good few days, but Regina is virtually simmering now, hot with fury. “And you  _ don’t _ . You can  _ never  _ talk about Robin like that. What would the public think? What would Marian?” This is usually the point when Emma is helplessly attracted to Regina, when she’d been swallowing and a little in awe of the other woman. Today, her mouth is dry, but it’s out of sheer trepidation.

 

“I know you’re worried about the campaign,” Emma says, taking a step forward, and her hand slides to Regina’s unconsciously, touches her wrist in an attempt to calm her. “I’m just…I’m worried about you, okay?” It’s the closest she’s gotten to admitting that she might be even slightly invested in Regina, and it feels transgressive, as though they’ve crossed a line.

 

Regina wrenches her hand away from Emma, somehow even more offended at that. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she bites out. “Does inappropriate workplace behavior only concern you when you aren’t the one doing it?” Emma takes a step back at the vitriol in Regina’s voice. They’ve been in this sort of tentative truce for days, where they can work together and almost  _ like _ each other, and she’s gotten complacent. She’d thought, for a bit, that they might not be friends but they  _ could _ be, at least– even if Regina stirs up a need within her that she can’t quench, even if the best kiss of her life has now  _ never happened _ . 

 

She isn’t used to Regina lashing out like this. “You’re full of it,” Regina hisses, and if her fingers weren’t curling together again in that agitated tell of hers, it might have been poison. As it is, it still stings. “The candidate is  _ god _ to you, understood? I call him out if he needs it. You stand by and talk about how he can do no wrong.” Her eyes gleam, dark and angry. “And if you have a problem with him, you can leave.” 

 

Emma recoils. It’s been a strange, exhilarating few months being needed by Regina, being brought into the inner circle instead of being pushed away. She’d gotten too attached, hadn’t she? Put down roots despite her better judgment. “Regina–” 

 

Regina stares at her, cold and unfriendly. “Just get out,” she growls, and Emma forces herself to shrug, insolent, and stroll out of the room as though it doesn’t matter at all.

 

* * *

 

Jacinda is updating the website at her desk when Regina storms out of the office, says, “Walk with me. Out of  _ here _ ,” and stalks out of campaign headquarters.

 

Jacinda trails after her, hurrying to catch up only once Regina’s striding down Main Street, frustrated and furious at Emma Swan for even– for coming in and, yet again, toppling Regina’s carefully constructed house of cards. For that  _ I’m worried about you, okay? _ as though they’re friends or people who care about each other.

 

They aren’t friends. They can’t ever be friends. The list of reasons why has doubled and tripled since primary day had passed, and Emma has  _ some nerve _ acting as though she can be  _ worried  _ about Regina. 

 

Jacinda, who is something like a friend, says, “Look, she’s not wrong. The candidate does have the tendency to get a little handsy around you.” She lays a hand on Regina’s arm, slowing her down.

 

“We get along,” Regina says, defensive. There’s a sick feeling in her chest, and she ignores it determinedly, pushes aside anything that might be a distraction. “He’s harmless. He’s exactly who we need him to be.” Jacinda tilts her head in polite dubiousness, and Regina grits her teeth. “If winning means dealing with a touchy-feely candidate, then so be it.” 

 

Robin has always been overly affectionate with her. Maybe not when she’d been a kid staying in his house for a few days, but after she’d returned from her travels with Daddy. He’s comfortable with her, and she’s learned since the campaign had begun to suppress her discomfort with him.  _ Optics, optics _ , reminds a cool voice in her head. It sounds suspiciously like her mother.

 

She walks onward, glancing into the windows of shops to stare at the knick-knacks inside of them instead of looking Jacinda in the eye again. Jacinda ventures, “She’s just worried about you.” Her voice is conciliatory, a little too understanding, and Regina jerks around to glare at her.

 

Her voice is sharp. “I don’t need her swooping in to white knight me. I don’t need her at all–” 

 

“Regina,” Jacinda says. It’s in the same tone as Emma had said it before, but with more finality, and Regina sags. There isn’t much to deny without sounding as though she’s denying  _ too much _ , which she  _ isn’t _ , and she refuses to be defensive when it comes to Emma Swan and her nose stuck into Regina’s business.

 

Jacinda waits as Regina stares at the furniture displayed in Marco’s store window, and then she says, “Does Neal know?” 

 

It’s the most they’ve discussed the  _ thing that didn’t happen _ . Regina shakes her head. “There’s nothing to know,” she says. “It was…just a high-stress moment where we both lost it. The sooner we move on, the better.” 

 

Jacinda folds her arms, leaning against the next store window. “Is that what you’re going with.” It doesn’t sound like a question. “Admit it, Regina. I’ve seen you when you have a crush. I know how it looks.” 

 

“Not like  _ this _ ,” Regina says, offended. Her last  _ crush _ had been on a woman who’d swept into town to do business with her mother last summer. She’d made eyes at Regina over the dinner table while Mother had grown more and more irate, and then she’d caught her on the porch and kissed her against a column, fingers creeping up Regina’s side invitingly. Regina had been a disaster. She had thought of little else until the woman had left town again, business complete, and Jacinda had observed the whole thing with amusement. 

 

“No,” Jacinda agrees. “Not at all like this. Why do you think Emma is different?” 

 

Regina looks at her askance. “This is the reach of the century. If you’re implying that I have– I don’t have any  _ feelings  _ for Emma. There’s nothing between us but this one irritating secret– and trust me, she doesn’t like me, either.”  _ I’m worried about you, okay?  _ A lie. An excuse. They don’t worry about each other. It had been infuriating, and Regina had lashed out.

 

The regret arrives so quickly that Regina nearly has whiplash at her own emotions. “Especially not after today.” 

 

“She did look a little shell-shocked when she left the office,” Jacinda says, apologetic. “What did you say to her?” 

 

Regina shakes her head. “Nothing worse than I’ve ever said before,” she says. But it had felt different this time, had felt crueler and more charged. There has been a little thread of something like trust winding between them, lately, and this had felt like a betrayal. She shuts her eyes. “I shouldn’t have– I went too far. I didn’t want…” 

 

Jacinda watches her, now bemused, and Regina bangs her head very gently against the store window beside her. “Fuck,” she says. “I’m can’t  _ apologize _ , she’ll think she’s  _ right _ –” But the idea of leaving it, of Emma’s wide, hurt eyes, lingers in her mind like an accusation. “She’s the  _ worst _ ,” Regina complains. “Why was any of it her business? She didn’t have to come after me at all.” 

 

“The nerve of her,” Jacinda says, teasing, and Regina glowers at her.

 

“She has no right to give me those damned puppy-dog eyes just because I snapped at her. Or to– to–” She runs out of grievances and glares into the store window.

 

It’s a high-end jewelry place, the one where Mother used to purchase Regina’s jewelry for her. She had resented each piece, had seen them as price tags marking Mother’s ownership over her, but they had been beautiful and she’d brought a few with her when she’d moved out. On the display this season are a number of ornate necklaces, a few pairs of earrings that pique her interest, and one final necklace that stands out. 

 

It’s a diamond-studded snowflake, glittering in the sunlight, and Regina remembers, suddenly, being trapped in an elevator with Emma and murmuring quiet truths. Emma, her eyes haunted, as she’d mentioned the one foster mother she might have kept, playing in the snow and wishing for forever.

 

As though possessed, Regina steps into the store, Jacinda behind her as the jeweler looks at them with deep suspicion. “The time I came in here to buy Sabine her ring, they called Sheriff Nolan on me for loitering,” Jacinda mutters, glancing around. “What are we doing? Getting something nice for our superstore ball?” 

 

“The snowflake in the display,” Regina blurts out at the counter, and the man’s eyes finally flicker with recognition.

 

“You’re the Mills girl,” he says. “Aren’t you helping Killian Jones with his campaign? Your mother can’t stop talking about the two of you.” Regina stares at him, very hostile. Jacinda hides a snicker with her hand. The jeweler shrugs, distracted. “Well, this is one of our finest pieces,” he says, lifting the necklace. “Truly exquisite.” 

 

It also costs a pretty penny, and Regina pays it without thinking, without considering it until she’s standing outside the store again with a velvet box in a bag in her hand. “Oh, god,” she moans. “What– I can’t  _ give  _ this to her.” 

 

“You bought that for Emma?” Jacinda demands, incredulous. “Oh, honey. This is a new low.” She has her lips pressed together as though she’s afraid she might laugh.

 

“I don’t know what I was thinking!” Regina snaps back, staring at the bag with muted horror. “I just…I didn’t want to  _ hurt _ her. I felt bad.” 

 

Jacinda nods slowly. “Yeah, remember that time I screwed up the image resolution for one of our ads and it printed blurry? You reamed me out for a while. I was  _ really  _ hurt. Scarred, even. Some earrings might make it better,” she says, shaking her head sadly. “Maybe that bracelet?” 

 

Regina straightens in a bolt of realization. “Neal. I’ll have Neal give it to her. Just…cheer her up a little.” 

 

“Regina.” A long-suffering sigh. Jacinda looks at her as though she might have lost her mind. “You’re going to have Neal give Emma your apology necklace?” 

 

Regina shrugs, a little huffy at her tone. It’s  _ patronizing _ , really. “Emma wants Neal,” she says curtly. “She’s made that clear. So I’m going to make sure that Neal is good to her. He’s put her through enough already.” 

 

Jacinda nods slowly. “Okay, Regina. This is…definitely a thing that you’re doing, apparently. You think Neal is going to go for this?” 

 

“He’ll do it if I tell him to,” Regina says, sticking out her chin just a bit. She sounds a little like a bratty little sister, which is maybe what she  _ is _ . A brief reminder that the campaign needs everyone to be happy and motivated, that Emma hasn’t quite forgiven him for whatever had caused all the awkwardness after the news about Portland had gotten out. Regina spends enough time glaring at Emma to see the difference in their interactions, the stilted way that Emma never reaches out for Neal, just reacts when he reaches for her.  

 

Neal will do it, and Regina is determined that he do it well. They’re walking back to the campaign headquarters now, Regina tucking the bag against her side as she glances into the windows and finds Emma working at her computer, her expression morose. Neal will cheer her up. Regina will make up for her hostility, even indirectly.

 

Just because it’s the right thing to do. Not out of misplaced  _ affection  _ for Emma, no matter how bemused Jacinda looks as she watches Regina.

 

She’s staring at Emma. She tears her eyes away before Emma notices.

 

* * *

 

It has been a thoroughly terrible day.

 

Well, not  _ thoroughly _ . Emma has gotten the green light for the biggest project she’s ever organized, she’s putting together a guest list with dozens of names on it, and she thinks she might be doing a pretty good job at it. She’s bouncing ideas off of Sabine and Ruby while Neal has vanished into the office with Regina, and truthfully, every part of her day has been fine.

 

She has no reason to be in a foul mood, except that Regina had snapped at her earlier and it’s all she can think about. Which is  _ dumb. _ It isn’t the first time that Regina has snapped at her, and it won’t be the last, either. She has no reason to feel like today has been a wash, but it feels like one, anyway.

 

Regina emerges from the office, and Emma watches from the corner of her eye as Robin approaches her. “I thought we could get back to work on the speech,” he says. He stands too close, and Emma thinks she can see Regina’s shoulders tensing. 

 

Regina’s eyes flicker Emma’s way, and she catches Emma’s glance. They stare at each other, Regina challenging and Emma baleful, and Regina straightens and smiles up at Robin without stepping away. “Neal is using the office right now,” she says. “We can work out here.” 

 

“Of course,” Robin says agreeably. “I do love picking your mind. You’re quite the wordsmith.” 

 

Regina laughs, a hint of discomfort beneath it. “Well, I’m no Mulan,” she says, earning a startled, gratified look from their other resident speechwriter.

 

“You have a fire to you,” Robin says, earnest in his praise. “An energy that’s almost contagious in its potency. I’m going to need that from my chief of staff.” 

 

And the truth is, maybe Regina’s right. Maybe Emma’s just reading too much into this. Robin is harmless, even if he feels a little too close to Regina. He hasn’t crossed any lines– he just seems wholly in awe of Regina, which is…kind of  _ relatable _ , so who is she to step in and say something? Regina has made it clear that she can take care of herself, even if every fiber of Emma’s being is screaming out to step between them and break through this tension she senses.

 

She swallows and looks away, listening with half an ear as Regina and Robin discuss one of the points they want to make about infrastructure. Regina frames everything through Roland–  _ what would you want for Roland? How does this benefit Roland? _ – and Robin finds his stride in a way that he often doesn’t when he’s put on the spot.

 

Regina is so  _ good _ at her job, Emma reflects. She can take anyone’s half-baked thoughts and lead them to the right words, to turning a light desire into a speech that can move even the most hostile of audiences. She’s so good at grasping how to tease out anyone’s potential, and Emma’s hit by a wave of longing that she can’t tamp down in time. She’d wondered once why anyone would like Regina– she  _ doesn’t  _ like Regina, not now, because Regina is an ass– 

 

Maybe she likes her just a tiny bit. She can be gentle when she’s given the chance, can be warm and smart and giving, and there’s a sparkle to her eyes when her defenses are down and she’s doing what she loves. She’s come out of Hell Mansion, where Cora Mills reigns, and she’s come out of it as someone who does the right thing and who fights for what matters. Emma can’t help but respect her, just a little, and it leaves a lump in her throat as she watches Regina with Robin, patiently transcribing a paragraph as Robin talks about Roland.

 

“Uh,” It’s Neal, hovering behind her, and Emma jumps. She hadn’t noticed him, so fixed as she’d been on Regina. “Hey,” he says, his own eyes darting to Regina for a moment. “I was hoping we could talk.” 

 

“Sure.” She forces herself to look away from Regina, blinking instead at her boyfriend. They’ve been fine, lately. Emma’s been a little detached, a little guilty and a little distracted by Regina’s existence, and she hasn’t been the best of girlfriends lately. 

 

But Neal doesn’t look annoyed or uncertain. He’s smiling at her, warm and bright, and he reaches into his pocket and says, “You know, lately, I’ve been thinking about us.” 

 

Out of his pocket comes a little velvet box. 

 

Emma freezes. Sabine, beside her, mutters, “Oh, my god,” which echoes in Emma’s mind, over and over again, a panicky rhythm beneath her skin. She looks up, beyond Neal, searching for Regina’s gaze and finding it fixed on her, lips thin and eyes pained. 

 

Oh,  _ god _ , if Neal proposes right now– are they anywhere near that? Has she miscalculated what they are to each other? Emma loves him, but she doesn’t even know if she’s  _ in love  _ with him, if this is any kind of permanent relationship. She isn’t ready for a  _ ring _ . 

 

“It isn’t a ring,” Neal says patiently, and laughs at her strangled exhale. “Come on, Em. You think I’d propose with election day coming up?” He grows serious. “I just…I don’t think I’ve really been able to show you how much you mean to me. Because you really are  _ everything. _ And I know I’ve had some…some pretty low moments in the past–” He looks ashamed, and that shame is, somehow, what she’s been craving from him for months and never quite realized.

 

It’s strange, feeling so validated, feeling so  _ needed  _ by someone else, enough that they might apologize or be ashamed by their behavior. Emma hadn’t expected it from Neal, and she doesn’t know what kind of soul-searching he’d done to find all the right words, to give her everything she’s wanted. Because these are, at last and out of nowhere, the right words to set things right.

 

He looks up at her, beseeching. “I want you to know that I’m in love with you. You’re…you’re the most important person in my life.” 

 

_ One of _ , she wants to correct him, glancing at Regina. Regina is standing stock-still, emotionless, still watching them. Emma swallows, her mouth dry, and looks back at Neal. She wants to cry and she doesn’t know why, to sob at the idea of being the  _ most important person  _ to someone. “Neal…” 

 

He smiles at her, running his hands through his hair. He glances at Regina again, briefly, and then clears his throat. “I guess…you were  _ it  _ for me, you know? I kept running after girls who looked even a little like you for years after Portland. I think a part of me was just always searching for you.” She can’t respond, can’t explain the deep pit of guilt simmering within her, can’t write off primary night or Regina– Regina who’d rejected her–

 

“Open it,” Neal says, nudging over the jewelry box, and Emma opens it and gasps. 

 

It’s a necklace, beautiful and probably worth more than her car. It glitters, so brilliantly that it takes a moment for Emma to realize what it is.

 

A snowflake. “You…” And now Emma is feeling a little weak-kneed, as she’s never been with Neal before. “You remembered?” Neal blinks at her, still smiling warmly, and Emma remembers sitting in a park in the dark in Portland, a light snow falling around them, and Emma telling him the story of the one foster mother she’d loved.

 

Neal had  _ remembered  _ that. Neal had kept it as close to his heart as Emma had, and Emma is a little choked up at the thought of it. “Let me put it on you,” Neal suggests, and Emma turns obligingly, blinking back tears. Regina is still watching from the cubicle across the aisle, and Emma’s heart pounds in distressed conflict. Regina looks calm, very calm, almost bored. 

 

It hurts much more than it reasonably should, here and now, when Neal has just given her so much. 

 

She turns back to Neal, breathless at his words and the gift, and when he swoops in for a kiss, she accepts it with no hesitation at all. Neal is  _ good _ , for her and to her, and this is the moment that cements what had been a shaky foundation until now. And she’s been…lusting after his sister.  _ God _ , what kind of terrible person is she?

 

She holds him tightly, seeking out comfort for something he should never have to comfort her for. But she can’t help herself, at this point. Her eyes flicker over to Regina again, but only Robin is in the cubicle now.

 

* * *

 

Her plan had gone off without a hitch. Emma had looked gratified, content, in awe at the Neal’s gesture. Gone is the melancholy of before, the bad mood that Regina had put her in. Regina had sat with Neal and helped him put his feelings into words– words she’d known would comfort Emma, would make her feel loved and needed– and Neal hadn’t questioned her, just as she’d known he wouldn’t.

 

He wants to make Emma happy, even if he doesn’t grasp how. And Regina had wanted Emma to be happy, so this had been…exactly what should have happened. Neal and Emma’s relationship is stronger than ever, Emma feels good about herself, so there is absolutely no reason for Regina to be curled up on a chair in the corner of the candidate’s office with tears spilling down her cheeks.

 

_ Fuck. Fuck. _ She wants to rub at her eyes, to stop these ridiculous tears, but her mascara has already run enough. She wants to– to not think about Emma kissing Neal, about Emma smiling at him as though he’d hung the moon. She tries not to think about the moment when, even knowing what had been inside of the velvet box, Regina’s whole world had fallen out from under her. She wants  _ peace _ , free of Emma Fucking Swan and her Fucking Eyes That Seem To Hold The World Within Them.

 

“Hey, babe,” Jacinda says gently, sliding the door closed behind her. Regina shakes her head, schooling her face into neutral features as though her cheeks aren’t tearstained and her eyes aren’t red. “So you managed to do what you wanted to, huh?” 

 

Regina ignores her, unwilling to hear how she’s made a terrible mistake, how there’s no reason for her to feel this…this  _ heartbroken _ . There isn’t. She’d made her decision, with  _ it never happened _ and with teaching Neal how to repair his own relationship. She has no right to be so distraught over the fact that Emma had reacted exactly the way that Regina had wanted her to.

 

But Jacinda doesn’t say any of that. She moves to Regina, crouches in front of her and takes her hands into Regina’s, and she murmurs, “It’s okay. It’s all right if you…if you have feelings for her, you know that?” 

 

“I don’t–” Regina says, and her head falls with defeat, incapable of finishing the sentence, the lie she’s been telling herself over and over again. 

 

“No,” she whispers instead, and Jacinda’s hands tighten on hers. “No, it isn’t.” 

  
It is never,  _ ever _ going to be all right.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'ALL HAVE TRULY BEEN FEEDING ME WELL. ily all and i love every bit of feedback you offer!! here is a slightly more chill chapter before the dancing & drama begins :')

**JUNE 22**

_124 Days Until the General Election_

 

With the fundraiser underway, Emma is launched into what might be the busiest period of her life. Regina has taken a surprising step back, present when Emma seeks her out but otherwise distant. “I trust you,” Regina tells her when Emma comes to her with another pressing question about the color of the tablecloths or the exact wording on the invitation. She’s been subdued lately, distant in a way that isn’t exactly unfriendly but isn’t as enthusiastic as she’s been before.

 

“How can you trust me? I’ve never _done_ this before,” Emma says, very distressed at the responsibility that comes with choosing the font of the invitation. Negotiating to rent out the superstore had been easy. Planning out the itinerary hadn’t been bad. But she’s at a loss when it comes to the little details. “Regina, _please_.”

 

Regina sighs. “This one,” she says, jabbing a finger at one of the proposed invitations. “The first tablecloth you showed me was fine. You’re doing a wonderful job. You don’t need me.” She looks reluctant to say any more, and she turns back to Robin instead. He’s been waiting patiently at the other side of the desk for Emma to finish, watching them with some amusement.

 

Maybe Regina had spoken to him after all, because Emma has been making a determined habit of popping into the office at unexpected times, and Robin is always a careful distance away. He praises Regina to the skies, in a way that makes Regina flush with pleasure and smile tentatively back at him, regardless of what distance she puts between them. Emma is a little envious, because Regina will hardly even smile at her at all. She only looks exhausted at the notion of talking to Emma.

 

Emma traces her fingers instinctively around the snowflake she wears at her throat, the reminder that it doesn’t matter what Regina thinks of Emma. Emma is _wanted_ , is loved, by someone who values her enough to have given her a necklace and the words she’s always craved. It doesn’t matter if Regina is staying away, isn’t bringing quite the same passion to their conversations, because Emma has Neal and that kiss _never happened_.

 

And yet, she still finds herself lingering by the office door, watching Regina as she motions to Robin to stand, watching him with a critical eye as he begins to deliver his speech. This speech will be just as important as the fundraiser itself, the moment that will bring in new donors or leave them out in the cold, and Regina is determined that it be perfect. Emma has no doubt that it will be.

 

A tiny part of her wonders, for a moment, what it would take to have Regina stare at her with the same intensity as she does their last chance for the campaign. She presses a hand to her necklace and refuses to think about that anymore.

 

There are some snags with the guest list, a few empty tables that need to be filled, and she buries herself in the work, makes phone calls and wheedles the campaign’s few wealthier loyalists to make more phone calls for her. She speaks to Sheriff Nolan for a good ten minutes about security for the event, and speaks to Peter and his Lost Boys for a half hour before they agree to give the superstore a wide berth.

 

“It’s not that I think you’re going to break into cars, but–”

 

“Of course we’d break into cars,” Peter says scornfully. “Don’t you _know_ us? We’d make enough off of a dozen of those–” He stops himself and says, subdued, “We will, of course, avoid the superstore for the night.”

 

“Thanks,” Emma says, grinning despite herself. “We want to get ourselves some allies, not persuade the state that we need more of a police presence here.”

 

She can practically hear the way Peter puffs out his chest. “We’ll keep your rich assholes safe for the night,” he assures her.

 

“Sheriff Nolan might as well deputize you.” It’s an idea, actually. She’s thought about it before, about how the Lost Boys might do well employed by the sheriff’s station. It’ll be something to bring up to Sheriff Nolan, maybe, to build a better rapport between the biggest rabble-rousers in town and the hapless sheriff.

 

 _After the election_. It’s a strange kind of foggy future, post-election. She doesn’t know what she sees in that future, if she’ll have a job or if she’ll be back to wandering, alone and fading out of purpose until she wanders away from this little town to somewhere new. She doesn’t know if she’ll have anything left here at all.

 

 _Neal_ , she reminds herself, absently fingering her necklace, but that kind of future seems just as foggy to her as life after the election. If they win, Regina will be Robin’s chief of staff, Emma is pretty sure. If they lose…

 

Regina goes back to school, defeated, and Emma swallows past a lump in her throat at the thought of it. Ruby will finally get back to Granny’s full time, like she’s been trying to for months. Tamara has a job in lobbying, Sabine and Jacinda have the bakery, Mulan is somehow managing school even during the campaign, and Neal has his socialite popularity to fall back on. Robin works with the Boy Scouts chapter in town and Marian’s family has a real estate business that she’s been in and out of throughout the campaign.

 

Everyone has something to return to, except for Emma.

 

She refuses to think any more about the future, but for the wave of melancholy that washes over her. This fundraiser will be a success. There are plenty of people rooting for them. Regina Mills doesn’t lose.

 

 _Regina Mills doesn’t lose_.

 

Emma exhales and picks up the phone again after she finishes with Peter, absentmindedly answering when it rings. “Locksley for Storybrooke.”

 

It’s Kathryn, their lawyer, sounding harried. “It’s about your guest list,” she says, and Emma buckles down and focuses on the present.

 

* * *

 

“She _what_?” Sabine demands, furious.

 

“Poached our guest list for the fundraiser,” Emma tells them again. She’s just as livid as Sabine, fists clenched and heart pounding with renewed adrenaline. “Cora Mills has arranged a formal evening of drinks at her home in a few days, and she’s invited more than half the people who RSVPed to our fundraiser. She’s trying to undercut us.”

 

Neal scowls. “I’ll undercut _her_ –” he says, sliding an arm around Emma’s waist.

 

She shakes it off. Now isn’t the time to be a dutiful girlfriend. “We have to– we need to find out what she’s planning there. Get an invite. Or…I don’t know, I can have Peter and his people egg the house during her event–”

 

“You will _not_ ,” Regina says, steely-eyed. It’s the first time she’s spoken since Emma had first explained what Kathryn had told them. She stands, and everyone looks to her expectantly. “No one engages. If I know my mother, she’ll be expecting us to make an appearance, and she’ll have a plan in place to make us look desperate. Our fundraiser can stand apart from Mother’s, and we can stay classy without some kind of undercover infiltration–”

 

 _Undercover infiltration_ sounds about right. “We _are_ the classy ones,” Emma argues. “But we can’t let her snatch away our best chance at our fundraiser being a success. We can sabotage her event–”

 

“We _can’t_.” Regina gives her a stern look in warning. “Don’t underestimate my mother. Whatever you’re up to, she’ll be a dozen steps ahead. We can’t take this risk, not in front of our donors. Stand down.”

 

Emma glowers at her. She doesn’t know what she’s more frustrated by, Regina’s insistence that they _do nothing_ or the way Regina is treating her like…like _anyone_. There’s no bite to their interaction, no fire behind Regina’s look and no softness. She might as well be a random volunteer instead of Regina’s Official Nemesis.

 

Regina turns away from her, distracted, and says, “Let’s go iron out that speech again. If we’re going to outperform Cora Mills, we’ve got to be the damned best we can be at this fundraiser.” She heads back to the office, Emma dismissed, and Emma can only sulk after her.

 

And then, launch into action.

 

Their guest list is long, spanning the few MAF members on the wealthier side of town and some of their contacts. There are a few dozen strangers, though, Shirin Jasmine’s recommendations from state politics and some big names in business who are interested in their superstore plan. Emma scans the names, pausing on a few unfamiliar ones to Google them, and then finally, near the end of the list, hits the jackpot.

 

* * *

 

 _William Smee._ Made a fortune in Bitcoin via connections to The Pirate Bay, an online torrenting website now situated outside the United States. Had been charged and gotten off scot-free, with the help of excellent lawyers. Now, mostly known for his bar appearances, which are numerous and lengthy.

 

Emma has exactly one dress that might be considered formal, a leather piece she’d bought a few years ago and held onto. She has it dry cleaned right in time, and she makes sure that Neal is out for the day on the night of Cora’s party. For all Neal’s talk about what she means to him, she’s no fool. He’s wrapped around Regina’s little finger, and if he knows what she’s planning…

 

She uses a YouTube tutorial to do her makeup, eschewing her usual for a look that’s severe and stark, skin so pale that her eyebrows are practically invisible. She yanks her hair back into a tight bun, and she’s satisfied when she looks at herself in the mirror that no one at the party is going to recognize her as the girl from the local news. _Well_. Aside from Cora herself, if she looks twice at Emma.

 

She’s plotted the route from Smee’s home in Bangor to Storybrooke and she drives down to the one bar in Storybrooke that is along the way. If Regina knew about any of this, she’d be pissed but impressed, which is exactly Emma’s sweet spot.

 

She sighs, caught in a sudden wave of ridiculous longing, and slides into place at the bar. A man walks in just a few minutes later, taking a seat beside her, and Emma smiles at him. “Buy you a drink?” she offers.

 

William Smee blinks at her, then grins as though he can’t believe his luck. Emma smiles charmingly at him. “Just one to take the edge off. I’ve got to keep my wits about me,” he says.

 

Emma pouts. “Spoilsport.”

 

He orders his drink, and Emma shifts in closer, batting her eyelashes at him. “Long trip?”

 

He’s only too glad to talk. He goes on about just about every car he’d nearly hit along the way in great detail, vents in excess about a business partner who’s been treating him _like I’m second tier as though I haven’t kept this ship running!_ , calls himself a pirate roughly a dozen times, and buys Emma a number of fruity drinks with minimal alcohol.

 

Emma drinks absently, leans over onto her wrists and coos over him, pouts when he doesn’t answer her questions and softening when he does. “It’s some Cora Mills event,” he says, lifting his chin. “You know Cora Mills?”

 

“Everyone knows Cora Mills, babe,” Emma says, rounding her eyes in awe. “You got invited to a Cora Mills event? I hear they’re the bomb.” Smee blinks at her in confusion, and she clarifies, “Free drinks and stuffy rich people.”

 

“ _Ah_ ,” he says, nodding sagely. “Sounds about right. And then there’s this other party around here on the fifth–”

 

“Tell me about Cora’s,” Emma cuts him off, beaming at him expectantly. “Who are you bringing as your plus one?”

 

Smee looks at her, frowning. Emma widens her eyes. “Oh, no, honey. You don’t have a plus one? At a _Cora Mills_ event?” Smee is beginning to look perturbed. “Do they even let people in without a guest? It’s expected. Last time I was invited to one, I went with this Instagram model who was kind of a sap, but great taste in jewelry–” She runs a finger along her necklace. “I don’t want you going with all those socialites looking down on you for coming alone,” she says somberly.

 

Smee is beginning to look very alarmed. “Maybe…uh…you got anything planned for tonight?”

 

Emma cracks a slow, sultry smile. “I think I could clear my schedule,” she says.

 

* * *

 

Of course Regina’s going to the party. She isn’t a _fool_ , and Mother might be out to humiliate them, but she isn’t going to call out her own daughter at her event. Mother cares more about appearances than anything, and Regina is counting on that as she loops her arm around Sidney’s and saunters into the house.

 

“I’m glad we’re doing this,” Sidney says, glancing around the house. “We’ve barely seen each other since your campaign began.”

 

“It’s been hectic,” Regina says distractedly. Sidney is frowning at her again, and she manages a smile. “We’ll have plenty of time together once Robin is mayor. Promise.” Appeased, he smiles at her, and she bites back a tiny pang of guilt and turns back to scope out the room.

 

Most of Mother’s invites are strangers, names off a list and faces from the newspapers, and they mill about, mingling with each other and making light conversation. Sidney leads the way to a vaguely familiar face, a practiced smile on his face. “Dr. Facilier,” he greets the other man, and Regina remembers him. He’s one of the political commentators on Twitter whom she follows. “I didn’t expect to see you at a Cora Mills event.”

 

The other man speaks in smooth, polished tones. “I was admittedly curious,” he says, his eyes flickering to Regina as though he knows exactly who she is. Regina smiles, professional and unwavering, and Facilier smiles back. “The Locksley campaign is the little engine that could, isn’t it?”

 

“They’ve made a name for themselves by now,” Sidney agrees after a moment of hesitation. Regina gives him a short, nearly imperceptible nod. “I’ve been covering them for months now, before anyone else knew who they were.”

 

Facilier nods slowly. “Quite an insightful move,” he says. “A political campaign that stands out in Storybrooke, Maine, is the sort of campaign worth following. And the campaign managers– a second generation of Gold-Mills, working opposite their parents? I’m intrigued.” His eyes are on Regina again, and she quirks an eyebrow, challenging him to ask the question that he wants to.

 

But he doesn’t. He turns to speak to someone else, and Regina hears only snatches of their conversation as they walk away, a flash of, “Cora must be in a tizzy over the Locksley dinner dance.”

 

“Or she’s trying to save us some money,” the woman with him responds, and they laugh together.

 

The display of opulence at this event is, as always, excessive and intimidating. Mother has spread the party through both sitting rooms, in through the dining room and to the foyer on its other side. The walls and shelves are littered with Mother’s most expensive prizes, the heavy drapes pulled open over the big picture window in the living room as though to display the wealth of the neighborhood and grounds. There are probably close to forty or fifty people wandering through the spacious rooms, eating hors d'oeuvres and sipping drinks from the bar. Mother makes it clear that she doesn’t need funds from anyone here for Jones’s campaign. She’s only brought her guests here to sabotage Regina’s.

 

Regina gets a drink and gulps it down, slipping away from Sidney to mingle with the others. She gets more than a few bemused looks from those who recognize her, but no one dares ask her why she’s at her opponent’s event. She’d been counting on that, too, from people accustomed to nepotism and intrigue, who won’t question a Mills on why she’s attending her mother’s party.

 

Mother sees her instantly when she makes her way into the second living room, descending the two steps into a room decorated with finely crafted woodwork and vases that cost more than Regina’s lease across town. “Darling,” Mother calls, a hint of threat in her voice, and they engage in some of the most hostile air kisses that Regina has ever experienced. Mother’s eyes are steely, even as her lips curve into a smile. “What an…unexpected surprise.”

 

Regina frowns, schools her face to look startled. “Unexpected? Mother, did I misunderstand your invitation?”

 

Mother’s smile turns sharp. There’s little she hates more than being undermined, than Regina blatantly lying to win a chess match between them. When Regina had been a child, that had been reason enough for her to be punished, to be locked away in her room without meals or slapped hard across the face. A part of Regina still flinches, still awaits punishment with every moment she strays from Mother’s script.

 

She has to remind herself that now, Mother no longer holds all the cards. “Of course not,” Mother says smoothly. “I thought you might be too busy studying to attend. You have so much catching up to do before you return to school.” Her eyes flicker to the glass in Regina’s hand. “But I suppose the open bar was too much of a draw for you.”

 

Regina’s eyebrows rise. _That’s_ a new blow. But it’s enough to have several guests looking twice at Regina in quiet doubt. “I had one glass of wine,” she protests, which succeeds in making her sound both overly defensive and like a petulant child. Mother has won this round.

 

Mother retreats in victory, turns around to speak to someone else in that high, false tone she uses with company. Regina smiles at onlookers and stalks away, retreating back to the foyer.

 

It’s just in time for another crisis, in the shape of a familiar woman on the arm of a man Regina’s never seen before. “Oh, I don’t know,” Emma Swan is saying breezily. “I mean, Jones seems sort of flighty, wouldn’t you say?”

 

She’s wearing a leather dress that molds itself to her curves, her face pale and almost unrecognizable, and her beautiful hair pulled back into a tight bun. She looks very nearly like she belongs with this crowd, and she’s here against Regina’s express command.

 

Regina gapes, and her heart does a traitorous little twist in her chest. There’s also _that_ , which is becoming more and more of a problem with every passing day. She can’t have feelings for Emma. She _can’t_ , and she’s been doing everything in her power to make sure that those don’t develop any more.

 

She’s been keeping her distance, been careful not to spend too much time alone with Emma and to keep their conversations strictly professional. She’s protecting Neal, protecting Emma herself, whose relationship with Neal seems to have improved since, and she’s protecting her heart, raw and exposed as it feels around Emma.

 

It’s harder like this, with Emma’s long, defined legs right in front of her, when all of Regina yearns to go to her and–

 

– _to yell at her, because what the fuck._ Emma is chatting away with her escort, flirting shamelessly until the man is completely spellbound, and Regina storms over to her in cold fury. “Emma, what the _hell_ ,” she hisses.

 

Emma tilts her head, her brow creasing. “I’m sorry, have we met?” She lets out a very un-Emma-like giggle. “Are you one of Willy’s friends? I’m his plus-one.” She leans against the man with her. He’s unkempt, a little bleary-eyed, the sort of man Mother would never ordinarily allow into her parties. “I’ve always had a thing for pirates,” she confides into the man’s ear, loud enough for Regina to hear.

 

Regina curls her lip. “That’s revolting.” The man looks offended, and Regina fixes him with a dark glare that has him shrinking back. Pathetic. She turns back to Emma. “No, I don’t think we have met,” she says coolly. “I wouldn’t be caught dead near anyone with foundation as atrocious as yours. Or that terrible hair. You look as though you’re wearing a helmet.”

 

Emma looks disappointed. “You don’t like it?” She brightens. “Good thing we don’t know each other, then,” she corrects herself smugly. “So who are you? Are you a friend of Killian Jones? You look _just_ like the crocodile from his Broadway run.”

 

Regina runs out of patience. “Emma, this isn’t funny. You shouldn’t _be_ here. If Mother sees you–”

 

“Mother?” her escort echoes.

 

Emma makes a face. “I don’t know what she’s talking about, either,” she says, her lips twisting into a humorless smirk. “She looks a little like Regina Mills, but I _know_ she isn’t Regina Mills, because Regina Mills was very adamant that no one from her campaign attended this party.”

 

“Yes,” Regina says, frigid and irritated. “She was.”

 

“So what would that make her?” Emma drawls unsmilingly. “A hypocrite, I suppose. Who doesn’t trust her _minions_ at all.” Now she sounds hurt, and Regina grimaces.

 

“Maybe she had her reasons,” she shoots back. “And _maybe_ her team should have trusted _her_ instead.”

 

Emma’s escort looks between them in bewilderment, and finally says, “Look, are you two together? I don’t want any trouble–”

 

“No!” Emma nearly yelps out. A hand goes to her snowflake necklace almost unconsciously, and Regina aches at it.

 

“Certainly not,” she says, her voice colder than before. “I don’t even know her.” She turns on her heel and stalks away from Emma, furious and hurt.

 

Emma has some _nerve_ , deliberately disobeying her order out of sheer stubbornness and compromising the fundraiser that Regina had _given_ to her. And now, to act as though she’s somehow justified in it because Regina is doing the exact same thing? How _dare_ she. Regina buzzes with rage, with worry, because Mother will make her way into the foyer any minute now, and Emma will be seen.

 

But Emma is gone by the time Mother arrives in the next room. Emma steers her escort through the room, carefully avoiding Mother, and she speaks to no one but her escort. She’s being careful, thankfully, even if she shouldn’t be here at _all_. Regina watches Emma, distracted from the murmurs around the room, and trails a safe distance behind her.

 

And she’s so distracted that she doesn’t see Jones coming until he drawls, “Your Majesty,” and slides a hand onto her back.

 

Regina smiles at a random stranger across the room. “Remove your hand or I’ll cut it off,” she says sweetly.

 

Jones smirks. He does not remove his hand. “I do like a feisty woman,” he murmurs, close to her ear. Regina takes a step forward, close enough to the crossed sabres on the wall to lay her hand on a hilt suggestively. Jones takes a step back.

 

Regina’s eyes flicker to the doorway to the room, to where Emma should have disappeared already. Instead, Emma lingers, a dark look in her eyes as she focuses on Jones. Regina shakes her head imperceptibly. _Get out_ , she says with her eyes. _Don’t be seen_. To Jones, she says, “So, how does it feel, being in a room where no one likes you? Must be like being back on Broadway, huh?”

 

“I was a revelation on Broadway,” Jones retorts, sounding miffed. _Good_.

 

“And yet, here you are back in Maine, running for small-town government. Sounds like you were a real success out there.” She knows she’s good at this, at picking away at insecurities until there’s a gaping hole left behind. She’d tried it with Emma and had been unable to keep it up– Emma had been too competent, too eager to help, too ready to challenge Regina– but with Jones, she sees when her comments land.

 

He glowers at her. “Yes, well, it might be pathetic, but even more pathetic? Starting out at Cora Mills’s daughter and running a second-tier losing campaign as _deputy_ campaign manager.” The air around them turns suddenly frigid. Jones laughs, victorious.

 

“Maybe they’ll have a role for you on one of those popular crime shows when this is over,” Regina shoots back. “With your charisma, you’d be a fantastic corpse.” Jones blinks, sorting out her answer for the insult, and Regina saunters off before he has a chance to retort.

 

Emma is in the next room, eating what has to be her… _tenth? eleventh?_ hors d'oeuvre. She raises an eyebrow at Regina, and says, “Reena, wasn’t it?” when Regina approaches.

 

“Oh, fuck off,” Regina says, disgusted, and stomps away to the dining room. She gets another drink, because frankly, she deserves it, and struggles again to blend in and eavesdrop.

 

Few guests present are talking about the campaign. Most are discussing business acquisitions, the news, even Mother’s tasteful decor. There’s the occasional mention of Jones or Locksley, but disinterested, with no investment. They’re going to have their work cut out for them at their fundraiser.

 

Which begs the question, again, of why Mother had arranged this event at all? Had it only been to taunt Regina? Does she have some other plans up her sleeve? Regina looks around, eyes moving from a man with a long mustache gobbling up little potato puffs to a woman who’s tottering on her heels to a man and a woman huddled at the edge of the dining room, their backs to her–

 

 _Wait_. She stares after them, brow furrowed. They bear a striking resemblance, from the back, to Neal and Tamara. Regina takes a step forward, dodging past a heavyset man who blocks her view for a moment to venture deeper into the room, searching for maybe-Neal-and-Tamara as they shift toward the doorway to the kitchen.

 

By the time she manages to cross the room, they’re gone. There’s no sign of the duo in the next room in the cycle of sitting room, sitting room, foyer, dining room. Regina glances toward the kitchen, stepping in past the flurry of servers and getting some dirty looks.

 

The kitchen has never been a place where Regina had spent much time while growing up. Mother would get tetchy even at the suggestion that Regina might snack during the day, and their endless rotation of cooks had been instructed to chase Regina out if she’d stick her head in. Still, this is as she’s rarely seen it before, packed with people and loud and warm. She weaves around irritated servers, squints around the room and moves to the back area where there’s a kitchen table, and then freezes.

 

It isn’t Neal and Tamara in the kitchen. It’s Jones and Mother, speaking in low voices, and Regina moves closer to hear.

 

“They took the bait,” Mother is saying smugly. “I told you, that Swan girl can’t help herself.” Regina tenses. _A trap_. Of course it’s a trap, and they’d walked right into it. “You’ll give the second version of the speech?”

 

“With great drama,” Jones says, cracking a smirk, and Regina ducks away with her heart pounding and makes a break for the dining room.

 

 _Emma_. She has to find Emma. Regina can explain her own appearance at this party, but Emma being exposed will be nothing short of disastrous for their fundraiser. They’ll look desperate, petty, and childish, and Mother won’t make much money off her event but she’ll have dealt them a glancing blow.

 

And in a dash of irony, _now_ Regina can’t find Emma. The people are milling about in the larger sitting room, gathering as they await Jones’s speech from the raised platform that’s been brought in for the event, and Regina peers through the crowd, searching for that telltale blonde hair and a leather dress.

 

 _Nothing_. Even the man she’d come with is standing alone near the edge of the group, bleary-eyed as he downs another drink. Had Emma figured out what Mother is up to and fled? She’s never been so prescient before.

 

A few more minutes of searching, and Jones is stepping up onto his podium. “Haven’t been on a stage in a while,” he says, winking down at the crowd. “Feels like home.” A few scattered laughs. These are not his fans.

 

Jones clears his throat. “You know, Storybrooke has a storied past in Maine politics. We’ve had state senators grow up here, in our little town, and we’ve had some star lobbyists make this their home. And I believe that a part of the reason why that is is because Storybrooke is a microcosm of what makes Maine so great, and what makes America the magnificent country that it is.”

 

He isn’t a bad speaker. Regina grits her teeth and makes a mental note to review Robin’s speech a dozen more times than planned. Jones goes on, brings up all the fluff that has guests smiling and applauding, and as he launches into the next segment of the speech, “–and that’s why it’s so vital that we turn leadership of this town over to someone with the maturity and experienced staff that can continue to make it one of the state’s greatest model towns.”

 

He’s about to go on the attack, and Regina sees, at last, a suspiciously familiar hat that Zelena had worn to death until Mother had ordered it off. It could be a coincidence, but there’s also only one person at this event who might be bold enough to go fishing through Cora Mills’s coat closet in search of a disguise, and Regina navigates subtly through the crowd and yanks at the arm of the wearer.

 

Emma turns around, eyes wide and panicked, and she collects herself when she sees Regina, probably preparing another _who are you_ that Regina has no time or patience for now. But it fades at the urgency that Emma must see in Regina’s eyes, and Regina nods to the back of the room, tugging her away as Jones verbally tears apart their campaign.

 

“It’s charming, don’t get me wrong,” he says, winking at the audience. “Adorable children, fighting for a cause out of sheer idealism and little more. But they _are_ children. Little tykes who think they can play with the adults.” He gestures down grandly, toward the spot where Emma had been standing moments ago. “Just look at–” His voice falters. “At…”

 

“At what?” a guest asks, and a titter runs through the crowd. Jones looks around wildly, searches the room and finds neither Emma nor Regina.

 

“I–I,” he stammers, and he jabs a finger toward the crowd. “She was here a _minute_ ago!” The people look around, baffled and a little amused, and Jones bellows, “Swan! Swan, where the hell are you?”

 

He might be a good speaker, but he doesn’t do well with improvisation. He gets loud and unpleasant, an ugly look to his face when he’s raging, and Mother is going to have to divert the crowd now.

 

Regina notes all of this from where she’s hiding, tucked in behind the long drapes with Emma pressed to her. There’s one window in the large sitting room that has interfered with its symmetry, a narrow one beside the picture window on only one side. Mother prefers to keep the drapes open over the picture window and hide the narrow window beside it with the rest of the drapes.

 

It had been the perfect place to play hide-and-seek in the mansion, growing up, and she remembers it being a lot roomier than it is right now. Emma shifts from where she’s halfway on Regina’s lap, the two of them huddled together on the window ledge, and Regina tightens her hold on her. “Sorry,” Emma mutters, low in the rising laughter filtering in from the rest of the room. “Trying not to fall.”

 

“Turn around,” Regina whispers. She twists, too, one leg curled under her and the other against the wall beneath the window, and Emma turns so she’s facing Regina, one leg pressing against the side of the window and the other falling down the wall, too. Emma is fully on her lap now. Regina is very warm, and Emma stares at her with dilated eyes, breathing shallowly.

 

Regina is afraid, very suddenly, of the level of temptation presented to her. Emma’s hands are on her arms, steadying them both, a thumb rubbing circles into Regina’s bare skin. Her disguise continues to be laughable, but there’s something very attractive about it, too, sleek hair and tight leather and the hungry way that Emma’s eyes fix onto Regina’s own dress and its ample cleavage. “I told you not to come,” Regina whispers, her voice shaky.

 

“You came,” Emma points out, her voice low but accusing. “You put on a whole show about how we’d be ruining everything if we did, and you went ahead and did it anyway.” More than anything else, she just sounds hurt. “We needed someone here, even if it was a trap. If I’d known you were going, I wouldn’t have–”

 

“Liar,” Regina says, and it’s drenched in fondness, her irritation with Emma fading away and replaced with what absolutely can _not_ be affection. “You would have charged right in here and played right into Mother’s hands. I know you.”

 

Emma winces. “Okay,” she concedes wryly. “But at least then I wouldn’t have had to sit at a bar on the other side of town for a half hour to flirt with a guy who calls himself a _pirate_.” She makes a face as Regina snickers quietly.

 

On the other side of the drapes, Mother is speaking, wrapping up the speech that Jones had flubbed. Emma lowers her voice to only a breath, frustrated words escaping as she gazes down at Regina. “Would it be so hard to just… _trust_ me? To trust your team? You aren’t doing this alone.” She looks pleading, and Regina’s stomach churns, her heart twisting with impossible wants. “Can’t you just let me in next time?”

 

There is something about Emma Swan’s face when she’s hurt that makes Regina certain that she would slay dragons for her. “I’m sorry,” Regina murmurs, and she leans her head back against the wall of the window ledge, feeling frustrated tears spring to her eyes. She doesn’t know how to fight this, how to push aside these ridiculous, inconvenient, crushing feelings that seem to have consumed her.

 

She doesn’t know when she’d begun this fall, only that she’s been slipping and sliding, bit by bit, down a cliff too steep to ever scale again. “I’m sorry,” she whispers again, and she’s telling it to Emma, to Neal, to herself, for this failure of hers, for her inability to fight back against her own heart.

 

Emma looks chagrined at her despair. “It’s okay,” she hurries to say. “It’s–” She reaches out to touch Regina’s cheek in comfort, her fingers bent so the backs brush against Regina’s skin, achingly gentle. “I just wish you’d talk to me. Even if you hate me. We make a good team.”

 

Emma Swan is _good_ , a woman who had never had a family or anyone to care about her, but who still cares so hard all the same. Her eyes shine with vulnerability, with genuine concern for Regina, and it’s difficult to breathe beneath her gaze.

 

The crowd is beginning to peter out, at last, the event unsuccessful and unremarkable. They leave without looking back, without squinting at the narrow window beside the picture window until they can make out two forms against the heavy fabric. The room quiets; and still, Emma strokes Regina’s cheek and Regina watches her with pained eyes.

 

She really is beautiful, shines with an energy that grips Regina and holds it, and Regina breathes, helpless in its grasp, “I don’t hate you.”

 

Emma’s face breaks out into a smile, wet and tentative and bright. “Well,” she says, “I guess I don’t hate you, either.” It’s teasing, but it holds a new weight to it, a line they’ve crossed that they’d instinctively known to avoid until now. Emma’s smile fades, fingers dropping from Regina’s cheek to touch the snowflake necklace she wears at her throat, but her eyes don’t leave Regina’s.

 

They’re still staring at each other when the drapes are pulled open in a sweeping motion, Mother alone in a silent room as she glowers wordlessly at them. Regina sees her only from the corner of her eye, the child within her cringing in fear of punishment, and she takes a breath and turns.

 

Mother’s glower is gone. Instead, she’s staring at them with a calculating look on her face, a quiet knowledge that sends a shiver down Regina’s spine. “Get out,” she orders, and Emma stumbles off of Regina’s lap, tugging Regina with her, her hands lingering in Regina’s for an unsteady moment.

 

Mother makes no threats as they walk silently toward the door. Somehow, that’s far more terrifying.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your wonderful feedback!! It is a super busy time of year for me but I wanted to get this out to you asap!! 
> 
> Y'all mocked me for calling last chapter chill but you aren't cloSE to ready for THIS ARC, buckle in!! Please be aware that there are some **content warnings** for this chapter. I don't want to spoil anything for those who don't want to be spoiled, so you can click that link below to go to the end of the chapter for the warning.

**JULY 5**

_ 123 Days Until the General Election _

 

_ I don’t hate you _ . Of all the things that Regina might have said to Emma, this is the one that Emma holds closest to her, bafflingly. She doesn’t understand it, either. But it carries her through the days that follow, the prep for the event that is quickly becoming their biggest and costliest yet. 

 

“It feels like everything’s riding on this,” she says, pacing in Neal’s apartment on the morning before the fundraiser. “Who was dumb enough to put  _ me  _ in charge of this? Why isn’t Sabine running this? Ruby? Someone with actual experience who’s done more–” 

 

“Em,” Neal says, catching her arm as she wheels around to pace in the other direction. “You’re doing  _ great _ . Everyone is hella impressed with your vision for this. We have more guests than we expected, the superstore looks amazing, and even Regina has been gung-ho about your plans. It’s going off without a hitch.” 

 

“Last time we thought that, my criminal record wound up on TV,” Emma reminds him. “This is  _ big _ , and I’m going to fuck it up somehow. I know it. Regina’s going to kill me.” She hadn’t meant to say that aloud, and it earns a frown from Neal.

 

“I thought you two were getting along better now,” he says.

 

Emma flushes. “We are! I mean…we aren’t  _ fighting _ , not like we’re getting along or friends or…or anything like that–” She fumbles for an answer, her hand moving to grip the snowflake necklace. “We’re working together and we’re being…civil. Yeah. Civil.” 

 

Neal laughs. “It’s okay, Em. You don’t need to pretend you’re friends just to make me happy. Though I do appreciate the sentiment.” He grins at her, and she smiles back, a little sickly. “I get that you two are never going to be bosom buddies.” Emma nearly chokes on her own breath, hacking hard for a moment while Neal stares at her in bemusement. “I’m just glad you’re coexisting, you know?” 

 

Guilt, hot and uncomfortable, courses through her. “I got you,” she says, biting her lip. “I’m glad, too.” 

 

She doesn’t know what Neal would say if she’d told him the truth about primary night, not that there’s much of anything to  _ tell _ . So they’d kissed. Lots of people do lots of ridiculous things when they’re under stress, and it obviously hadn’t meant anything, except maybe that Emma isn’t as straight as she’d liked to think she’d been. And Regina’s  _ hot _ , like…Emma isn’t  _ blind _ , and–

 

She shakes her head in a futile attempt to push those thoughts away. Neal wouldn’t think it was a big deal if she tells him about it. He would laugh it off or…or  _ something _ . It’s not like they’re  _ in love _ . They just kissed. Regina just doesn’t hate her. 

 

_ Damn  _ it, she has a fundraiser to run, and this is  _ not  _ helpful. “Actually, I don’t really care,” she says, attempting to sound breezy as she whirls around.

Neal scoffs. “As if you don’t crave Regina’s validation. I see how you get when she’s proud of you.” He grins at her, gently teasing. “Admit it, I’ve seen you go gooey over a compliment.” 

 

“I do not.” 

 

“Last week, Regina told you that you’d done a phenomenal job with the guest list and I thought you were going to melt right there,” Neal says smugly. “You  _ crave  _ it. If I didn’t know you were straight as a pencil, I would get worried about my sister snatching you away.” 

 

Emma forces out a strangled laugh. “I bet you’d take that well.” 

 

Neal doesn’t seem to notice her discomfort. “I like to think that I’d take it like a gentleman,” he says, grinning. “Wouldn’t be the first time one of my girlfriends was more interested in Regina than in me. At least you wouldn’t suggest a ménage à trois with my  _ sister _ .” 

 

“Tina?” Emma guesses, because it always seems to be Tina.

 

“Tina,” Neal agrees, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t  _ believe  _ you invited her to this event.” 

 

“I  _ what _ ?” Emma seizes the distraction, snatching up her phone to peruse the guest list again.  _ Bell, Christina _ is listed on the first page, and Emma blinks, open-mouthed.

 

Neal rolls his eyes. “She’s done well for herself, even after Regina pretty much destroyed her. I guess Regina stuck her name on the list just in case she’d come. Tina’s always been weirdly fond of her.” He peers over at the list. “Huh. Like a list of Regina’s exes,” he says, and  _ fuck _ , Emma is suddenly triply stressed about this fundraiser. 

 

She’s never thought much about Regina  _ dating _ . In her head, Regina is basically dating the campaign, and she can’t imagine Regina in a relationship with someone else. It makes her stomach twist with an unpleasant sensation as she scans the list of attendees, searching for names to resent on sight. 

 

The funk that follows carries her through the rest of the morning and through an afternoon spent preparing the superstore, clearing the last bits of patio furniture as Sabine brings in caterers and decorators. She glares at that list over and over again, until the sun is low in the sky and it’s time for their guests to arrive.

 

Which is  _ so  _ petty and makes no sense, because the  _ thing  _ with Regina isn’t even a  _ thing  _ at all, and Neal has been a kind of great boyfriend lately, and her eyes should not be burning holes through an early arrival at the fundraiser who immediately wraps Regina into an embrace. “It’s been far too long,” the woman says, caressing Regina’s cheek. She’s very tall, with long blonde hair and piercing eyes that are fixed on Regina. Her dress is a deep red, and she wears it with the grace that Emma can’t even manage in her tux. 

 

Regina looks equally graceful, of course, dressed in a wine-red gown that reaches nearly to the ground. It is tight at the hips and flares out a bit at the knees, and the front is a dark latticework that has a hint of transparency to it. Emma had seen it earlier and promptly forgotten how to breathe, had gaped at Regina and checked her out so blatantly that she might have been caught if Regina hadn't been staring at her, distracted, eyes flickering over Emma's fitted suit with a hunger that had left Emma as breathless as the dress had. 

 

Still. Not a  _thing_ at all.

 

Regina smiles at the woman, eyes only for her, and Emma finds herself stalking across the entrance area. “Is there a problem?” she says, a little aggressively. 

 

The woman looks at her in amusement. She’s older than them.  _ Much  _ older, deep into her thirties at least. “An intriguing question,” she says, and Emma glares at her.

 

Regina says, her smile plastic, “Emma, this is Mallory Drake. Mal is an old friend of mine.” 

 

“I’ll say,” Emma mutters. Regina gives her a dark look. Mal’s lips twitch. Emma pastes a smile onto her face as well. “So nice to meet you,” she lies. “I hope you enjoy your night here.” 

 

Mal glances at Regina as though she’s a particularly tasty morsel. “I think I will,” she purrs. Regina flushes. Emma seethes in silence. 

 

She’s distracted by another arrival who jolts Regina to action, hurrying away from the woman who’s practically laid  _ claim  _ to her to greet the state senator at the door. “This is such a charming locale for a fundraiser,” he says, peering around. “You never disappoint, Miss Mills.” 

 

Regina glows with pride. “I couldn’t do any of it without our team,” she says, and she pats Emma’s back. Emma, who definitely does  _ not  _ crave Regina’s validation, can feel her head pounding in a pleasurable sort of way. “This was Emma Swan’s brainchild.” 

 

_ Take that, Mal _ , Emma might have thought if she weren’t a mature adult. Instead, she smiles warmly at the senator and says, “Why don’t I help you find a seat?” She guides the man toward the buffet. By the time he’s made it to a table with some food, Regina is back in front with  _ another  _ blonde, this one tiny and dressed in green.

 

Emma knows her from far too many Google searches. The infamous Tina Bell stares up at Regina, eyes narrowed, and promptly slaps her across the face. Emma gapes, hurries toward them, but Regina doesn’t react until Tina drops her hand, grins, and plants a kiss soundly on the corner of Regina’s mouth. “Hey!” Emma snaps out, skidding to a halt. 

 

Regina says, unfazed, “Tina. I thought you were still in prison.”

 

Tina waves her hand. “ _ Please _ . The world loves me too much for that.” She brightens. “There’s my boy,” she says, and she whirls around and virtually leaps into Neal’s arms. 

 

He disentangles himself, stammering and glancing at Emma, and Emma leans back, bemused. “I…uh. Hey, Tina.” 

 

“Baelfire,” Tina retorts. “Your stepsister is as beautiful as ever.” 

 

“Thanks,” Neal says dryly. “I dressed her myself.” 

 

Regina snorts. “I’m not in a tee and cargo shorts, so actually…” She gives him a half smirk, raising her eyebrows at Tina. “Come here to watch us fail?” 

 

Tina shakes her head. “I came because I received the most  _ interesting  _ invitation from your  _ mother  _ two weeks ago,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “I couldn’t resist seeing just what it is that has her so worked up.” She glances around. “I used to buy pixie dust behind this supermarket,” she says, leaning toward Regina conspiratorially. 

 

Emma glares at her, very wary. Regina doesn’t seem very distressed by Tina, which makes Emma even more irritated by her. Tina loops her arms into Neal’s and Regina’s, glancing around the room. Regina and Neal exchange a look over her head. “I spy with my little eye,” Tina croons, and then her head jerks around to fix her eyes on Emma. “A jealous girlfriend,” she says smugly. 

 

She detaches from Regina and Neal a moment later to peer at Emma, eyes narrowed in delight. “You are  _ cute _ ,” she says. “Kind of a girl-next-door look if the girl next door worked out a little more. Love the tux.” 

 

Emma says, teeth gritted, “Please stop  _ circling  _ me.” 

 

“Sorry,” Tina says, but she doesn’t sound sorry at all. She claps her hands together, standing a hair too close to Emma. “So? Tell me about the girl who’s captured Regina’s heart.” 

 

Emma freezes. Regina stiffens. Neal guffaws. “My jealous girlfriend,” he says, gesturing at himself and grinning at Emma. “Not Regina’s.” Emma smiles back weakly. Regina’s eyes burn into her, and Emma looks up at her and then swiftly looks away.

 

Tina’s brow creases. “Huh,” she says, looking from Emma to Regina. “I could have sworn…” Emma shifts, scurrying backward to stand beside Neal, wearing at her necklace with her fingers. Tina shrugs, looping her arm into Regina’s again. “More Regina for me, then,” she says brightly. Regina is standing in place as though rooted there, still watching Emma, and Emma stares at the ground. “Escort me to my seat, won’t you?” Tina says, blowing Neal a final kiss as she turns her attention to Regina. 

 

Regina twists away from them sharply. “Right this way,” she says, her voice brittle. Emma glares after Tina Bell, annoyed despite herself. Her gaze wanders to Regina’s back, the long reddish ball gown hugging the curves of her body and displaying her assets in a way that her pantsuits and short work dresses never have. There’s a sway to Regina’s hips as she walks away, and it’s positively mesmerizing. 

 

Neal says, “We should check on the caterers,” and Emma jolts, blinking away from Regina to smile at Neal again. 

 

“Yeah,” she says, and she can feel her heart still beating a little too quickly as they head toward Sabine’s end of the room.

 

* * *

 

Tina is nothing if not good at reminding Regina exactly how potent rose-colored glasses can be. Regina had remembered her fondly, almost, like a zany memory who had zipped into her life, drugged both her and her brother, and had been dealt with accordingly. She is quickly discovering that Tina is far less pleasant as a living, breathing presence in her life. 

 

As soon as they’re a good distance away from Neal, Tina nudges her and says, “You can’t tell me you aren’t hooking up with her. I saw those  _ looks _ .” 

 

Regina glowers at her. “I am not…I have  _ never  _ hooked up with Emma Swan,” she says darkly. Her heart hurts when she thinks about it, when she imagines Emma standing with Neal, comfortable and happy. 

 

“That little moment of hesitation…” Tina studies her and then laughs with delight. “So what  _ have  _ you done with her?” she says, smug and superior, and Regina stands in tight silence. “I can’t believe it. I spent  _ so  _ long trying to win you over. I thought you wouldn’t date me because I was Neal’s girlfriend. What does Little Miss Tuxedo have that I don’t? A six-pack?” She contemplates that. “Okay, that’s valid. But–” 

 

“Tina, can you  _ stop _ ?” Regina hisses. “I didn’t date you because you’re a halfwit who tried persuading me that pixie dust would lead me to my  _ true love _ ,” she spits out. When Regina had rejected that absurdity, Tina had taken matters into her own hands. “I don’t even know why you’re  _ here _ . Who put you on the guest list?” 

 

Tina huffs. “Well, fine. I haven’t forgotten your little overreaction to my prank, either,” she says, her smile gone. “Or the way you tried to bury me over it. You might have succeeded if I weren’t better at this than you. And I’m  _ still  _ better.” She turns on her heel and stalks off, head high, and Regina stares after her and feels very much like she’s drowning.

 

Another donor gone. Her mother a looming presence over this evening. Robin hit or miss at the best of times. And Emma walking with Neal across the room in a well-cut tux that had had Regina nearly salivating when she’d seen Emma in it, grinning beside him at something he’s said.

 

It’s a fucking  _ disaster  _ how much Emma can affect her mood, and Regina tears her eyes away from her, straightening her posture and affixing a new, practiced smile onto her face. The tables are filling up, and the people seem happy. The others are flitting from table to table, chatting up the potential donors. Marian has a crowd spellbound at her table, Ruby is leaning comfortably against a chair at the next one, and Jacinda is winning over everyone at a third. Neal and Emma have paused to chat with a group examining the decorations, and Tamara speaks in a hushed voice with one of their prized state senators. Sabine is directing the caterers, which just leaves…

 

_ Robin _ . Where is Robin? 

 

Regina twists around in sudden panic, scanning the room for any sign of their guest of honor. He’s nowhere to be found, and Regina opens her clutch and yanks out her phone, eyes widening at the texts from Mulan.  _ In the back. SOS.  _

 

She glides from the seating area toward the back of the store, where the lighting is dim and it looks more like a superstore than a ballroom. There’s a staff-only door, and she pushes it open, finding Mulan wringing her hands across from a panicked Robin. “I can’t do this!” he’s saying.

 

Mulan looks at her with abject relief. “Please help,” she says. “Stage fright or…something.” 

 

Regina sighs. “Robin,” she says, and he twists, startled. “What’s going on?” 

 

“What’s going  _ on _ ,” Robin says, and he paces back and forth with so much energy that Regina’s suddenly worried he might tear his suit, “Is that I saw the posh crowd out there. People like that, do you know how they see people like me? Do you think I have any chance of persuading them–” He jerks around again. “This was a mistake.” 

 

“The fundraiser?” Regina says dubiously, because Emma really has outdone herself with this one. It’ll be a rousing success if their candidate will  _ get out there _ . 

 

“The campaign,” Robin says, and he looks at her in agony. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Me? A mayor? I suppose I just…thought it would be you running the show. I didn’t think this through. I can’t–”  

 

“There’s no  _ can’t _ at this juncture, Robin,” Regina says, staring at him in disbelief. The pre-speech jitters are one thing. Second-guessing the campaign is unacceptable. “You’re in. You’re doing this. We need you out there now, because the entire campaign is riding on you right now and there are no other options. Do you understand?” 

 

He shakes his head vehemently. Mulan purses her lips. Regina clears her throat. “Robin,” she says, kid gloves firmly back on. “I want you to think back to the reason why you wanted to run in the first place. Do you remember what you told me then?” He still looks wild-eyed, and Regina says, “Roland. Where do you want Roland to grow up? In my mother’s Storybrooke or in yours?” 

 

Robin squeezes his eyes shut, takes a breath. “Mine,” he says. 

 

Regina says patiently, “Your Boy Scouts. What about them?” 

 

“Mine,” Robin repeats. “My Storybrooke.” 

 

Regina smiles encouragingly at him. “Then go  _ sell  _ it.” 

 

Robin seems to straighten, and Mulan relaxes beside Regina at last, tossing her a grateful look as she heads back to the main party. Regina waits at the door, keeping it open as Robin adjusts his tie and smiles warmly at her. “You’ve been a godsend, Regina,” he says. “The way you always know the right words…” 

 

“I’m one of your campaign managers,” Regina says reassuringly. “It’s my job to know the right words.” Neal is better at it than she is when the words aren’t on paper, but she’s learning, bit by bit, how to find those words instead of the sharp, easy ones. Emma’s influence, probably, though she’d rather throw herself off a cliff than tell Emma so. “You’re the one who’s going to make a difference out there. You’ve got this.” 

 

Robin smiles at her, soft and warm, and he walks to her. She takes a step back, clearing the space between him and the door, and she bites back the automatic discomfort at Robin’s proximity. He’s always a little too close, a little more comfortable with her than she is with him, and she dodges him and puts a hand on his arm to steer him back to the crowd. 

 

But before they make it all the way down the long aisles, he pauses for a moment, reaches out and brushes her cheek with his knuckles. “I’ll make you proud,” he promises, and Regina stands stock-still, nausea in her throat at the curiously intimate touch.

 

He steps away from her then, heads to the front with her trailing behind, and he sits at his table to schmooze up the bigwigs while Regina lingers in the aisle. She sees Emma across the room, her brow furrowed as she watches Regina, and she catches her gaze and mouths,  _ Are you okay? _

 

She must look like a disaster. Regina breathes, closes her eyes, and composes herself. She nods in response, and Emma looks even more alarmed.

 

* * *

 

Something is wrong with Regina, and Emma has to fight every instinct she has to stay in her seat, chatting with a union president and the district attorney. “Oh, yeah,” she gushes, motioning at the store. “ _ So  _ much potential. And the whole town will benefit.”

 

She glances at Regina again. Regina is walking swiftly toward the table where her  _ friend _ Mal is sitting, relaxing as she sits beside her. Mal puts a hand on her back and murmurs to her until Regina is smiling, and Emma swallows back a lump in her throat and forces herself to look away. 

 

Isn’t Regina supposed to be closeted? Mal is practically  _ all over  _ her, that hand still lingering on Regina’s back as though she’s shouting to the world that Regina is a lesbian. It’s indecent. Why is Regina just  _ accepting _ it, smiling beside her as though any of this is okay? Emma glares at Mal again, at Regina nestled in beside her, and she doesn’t know why she feels so sick.

 

Okay,  _ maybe  _ there’s a tiny bit of possessiveness going on, which is so  _ dumb _ . She isn’t dating Regina. She isn’t even friends with Regina. Emma snaps herself out of it, smiling instead at the man opposite her as she answers his question. 

 

The fundraiser is going well. They’d had the entire lawn furniture section of the store cleared for the event and replaced with a few small round tables with long tablecloths where people can sit and eat some of the appetizers from the buffet. The lighting is dim, adding to the formal feeling of the room, and there’s a large open space for them to dance. It looks  _ good _ , Emma thinks, and they have enough guests that they’ve made back the money for it, though they won’t know for sure if this is a success until additional donations begin to filter in.

 

For now, everything is riding on the candidate’s speech. Gregory Midas introduces him and gains polite applause as Robin steps up to the microphone, staring out at the crowd and looking mildly ill. His eyes find Regina’s, and he straightens, taking a breath and turning on his smile again. “I work as a Boy Scouts coordinator in Storybrooke,” he says to the audience. “Last year, I had a situation with a boy who was being bullied by two older boys. Not Boy Scouts. He was afraid to walk home from our meetings because of them.” 

 

He clears his throat, gaining some momentum. “I contacted the school and was told that there was nothing that they could do. I spoke to teachers, to administrators, even to the local sheriff. Every authority figure in town– every adult entrusted with the safety of this boy– and not one person could do a thing about these older boys. Why?” 

 

His eyes are grim, and he has an energy to him, a confidence that he only produces on rare occasions. “Well, one of the boys was the son of Isaac Heller, our current mayor,” he says, and the room stands at attention, the people piqued. Regina is standing again, Mal still beside her, and she already looks triumphant. “I crossed an ocean to come to this state, to this town. Storybrooke was home the moment I set foot in it. But Storybrooke has failed my Boy Scouts. Storybrooke has failed my son.” 

 

This is  _ good _ . Emma hasn’t heard the speech in full before, just the pieces Regina has rehearsed with him, but she knows this part nearly by heart. “Storybrooke was a dream I wanted more than anything,” Robin says, shaking his head. “Storybrooke was a ideal. Storybrooke is what our great state of Maine was always meant to be, a place where so many different people could live together in a beautiful mosaic. And then, that fairytale was shattered.” 

 

It’s a strong speech, of course. Regina’s always are, and this one is merciless as it rips into the  _ outside political machine that made Storybrooke its experiment _ , as it reframes Storybrooke as Maine’s vision for the future. Robin talks policy as though he’s comfortable with it, as though he knows what he’s talking about at last. He sounds almost mayoral up there, and Emma wonders, for the first time, if he might actually be any good at it.

 

Regina is still standing with Mal, but she’s leaning forward, her face bright and exhilarated. She’s beaming as Robin finishes his speech, glowing with victory, and when Robin finishes to thunderous applause, she does an adorable little fist pump that has Emma’s heart clench just at how  _ cute  _ it is.

 

She makes a break for Regina as people begin to stand and music filters through the store. They’ve gotten some classical band, along with a woman named Ursula for vocals, and Robin extends a hand to Marian and begins the dancing segment of the night. Jacinda begins snapping pictures, first of Robin and then other guests whom they want for their Facebook page. Emma turns away from them, distracted by a Regina who seems to shine, and she says dumbly, without thinking about anything but the light in Regina’s eyes and the red dress she wears so well, “Do you want to dance?” 

 

Regina is already shaking her head by the time Emma finishes the question. “I…” She swallows, looks almost regretful, Emma’s stomach churning like it had with  _ I don’t hate you _ . “I think that’s a bad idea,” she says. Her expression is more open than it’s ever been, unguarded and soft, and she looks away. “We should…you should dance with Neal.” 

 

Emma watches her, something stuck in her throat, and she says, “And you’ll dance with Mal?”

 

Regina tilts her head, her smile fragile, and says, “I don’t know. I should…” She looks around warily, keeping her voice low. “I think I’ll have to dance with quite a few men to justify even one woman in my arms.” 

 

_ In my arms _ , she says, and Emma craves it abruptly, with all that she is and has.  _ In Regina’s arms _ , swaying with her, a vision in red just inches away. She’s reaching for Regina without thinking, touching the smooth velvet of her dress as her fingers run down Regina’s arm, and she whispers, “Your speech was badass.” 

 

“Not my speech. Robin’s speech,” Regina corrects her. She touches Emma’s skin by her neck and goosebumps erupt beneath her fingers, Emma breathless as Regina fixes the collar of her shirt. She smoothes it down a few times, her fingers lingering and moving down Emma’s lapels

 

“Your speech,” Emma says firmly, and Regina gives her another smile. There is something dark and worried lurking beneath Regina’s eyes, and Emma doesn’t like it. She had seen it earlier, too, when Regina had arrived before the speech with Robin right in front of her. “Don’t dance with anyone you don’t want to,” Emma says, and Regina looks up at her, a tiny bit of that mask settling back into place.

 

And it’s too late, anyway. A voice from behind them says, “I think I owe my savior a dance,” and Robin is extending a hand out to Regina, that perpetual smile on his face. The darkness beneath Regina’s eyes only seems to grow, and Emma makes a split-second decision.

 

“Please,” she scoffs, sliding in between them and taking Robin’s hand. He looks bewildered, Regina frozen between annoyance and relief. “I just made the arrangements. I’m hardly a savior.” 

 

He recovers quickly, an easy smile on his lips. “You’ve done a magnificent job with the ambiance,” he says, gesturing at the room. His hands don’t dip too low on her back, and he doesn’t stand quite as close. It makes her even more wary of him, somehow. 

 

He’s looking over her shoulder at Regina, and she pretends not to notice. “You did a good job with that speech,” she says. “I really felt it. Did your wife enjoy it, too?” 

 

He blinks, looks puzzled. “To be sure,” he says, then brightens. “And there she is. I’d better–” He abruptly lets Emma go and moves back to Marian, safely out of Regina’s proximity. 

 

Regina is dancing with a man Emma remembers from Cora’s party, suave and debonair and a polite distance from her. Emma hates him anyway, as she does the next two men Regina dances with. Regina talks to each, chats and gestures at Robin as she does what she does best: sells the candidate. Still, Emma breathes a sigh of relief when Regina pulls away from the next man and finds Neal waiting patiently for her. 

 

Regina smiles up at him, and Emma watches them both with deep-rooted fondness and a little bit of wistfulness. They dance like they’ve been doing this for decades, which they probably  _ have _ , tiny children following awkward moves that they’d been taught from a young age. Regina spins, her dress fanning out behind her like a mermaid’s tail, and Neal twirls her and says something that Emma thinks might be  _ You’re so tiny! _ if she’s reading Neal’s lips and Regina’s glower right.

 

Neal laughs at Regina’s face and spins her again. They’re comfortable together, fond in a way that has always seemed so unlikely, given their personalities. Emma wonders what it might be like, to remain with Neal forever, to settle into a kind of permanent relationship with him that would be easy.  _ Easy _ . She’d gotten lucky, snagged a guy who loves her and who is easy to get along with and doesn’t want anything more from her than she’s willing to give him. 

 

She’d never believed she might have more than that until she’d kissed Regina on primary day and had stopped thinking of anything else. 

 

Staying with Neal means Regina remains in her life for eternity, and that sounds perfectly fine until Emma thinks about…Mal, Tina, some other woman who might capture Regina’s attention forever. Emma swallows, reaching for the necklace meant to remind her that Neal loves her, but it doesn’t work tonight, Regina dancing with her red dress flowing behind her like molten lava, Regina sparkling in the dim light and so beautiful that Emma can’t breathe. 

 

God, what is  _ happening  _ to her?

 

And then Regina turns and looks at her, and Emma doesn’t know what  _ that _ is, either, the expression on Regina’s face that’s inscrutable and as though she’s quietly in pain. Emma struggles to smile, feels as though she’s being swept under a wave of  _ something _ , and then Neal parts from Regina and heads to her. “Hey,” he says, and Emma sees the moment that Robin notices that Regina is free.

 

She watches them, distracted, and Neal puts a hand on her arm. “You okay?” he says, looking at her in concern, and she feels a wave of guilt. She’s torn. Every bit of her is screaming that she needs to stop the dance across the room, regardless of how angry it might make Regina. But  _ optics, optics _ , and tonight has been going so well. She has to–

 

“Emma?” Neal says, and Emma remembers him with another wave of guilt.

 

She looks back at Regina again. She’s already gone, vanished into the dimness with Robin, and Emma swallows back a moment of trepidation and smiles up at Neal. “I’m fine,” she says. “Just a little lost in my head. And I can’t…ballroom dance.” 

 

Neal laughs. “There are dances where you just need to follow,” he promises, and Emma smiles at him and then glances to the side again, searching for Regina.

 

* * *

 

Robin’s dancing is clunky. It’s the first thing Regina notices. Marian has been teaching him for weeks, but his movements are clumsy and awkward. It’s no worse than most of the other men at this affair, at least. Regina keeps the smile pasted onto her face as Robin’s fingers dig into her shoulder, dodging his shoes in an attempt to protect her toes. “You did a great job with the speech,” she says, pulling slightly back. 

 

Robin shifts forward, and Regina is claustrophobic with their proximity, the odd brush of her cheek still burning against her skin. She doesn’t know what it had meant, or if it had meant something at all. Maybe she’s blowing this out of proportion. Robin has always been touchy-feely with her, since the start of this campaign. She’d thought at the start that it might just be a need for grounding in a world he’d never experienced before. Now, it’s a habit.

 

There had been something about that touch before the speech that had felt like a little more than habit, and she shifts back again, internally flinching when he follows her step to lean in. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says earnestly. “You’ve been my touchstone this campaign, Regina.” 

 

She steers them with careful movements, subtle enough that Robin won’t notice, into a quiet corner where they won’t draw any attention. Jacinda is taking pictures at the other end of the room, guests flocking to her and easily overlooking Robin. Marian is dancing with Mulan with all the ease of someone who doesn’t have to be afraid to dance with a friend, and Regina watches her and feels hollowed out with envy and longing. 

 

And then fear, because Robin is closer than before, his grip around her waist tight and unyielding. He’s still smiling, still utterly oblivious to how close he’s holding her, and Regina glances around the room, searches for eyes on them, finds nothing but Emma peering around the other side of the room with her brow furrowed. 

 

She doesn’t see them. Regina slowly begins to extricate herself from Robin’s grip. “Well, you know this is Emma’s brainchild,” she says, taking a firm step away from Robin. “Everyone’s done so much for the campaign. You give me far too much credit.” 

 

Robin catches her wrist. Regina freezes up, supremely uncomfortable and uncertain about how to express it without setting off the candidate. “I don’t think I do,” Robin says. “You’re  _ special _ , Regina. You have something that no one else here has. You’re the heart and soul of this campaign– of this town.” His eyes burn into her and she smiles haltingly, the praise barely a balm against her rising need to escape. “And we’re going to save Storybrooke together.” 

 

She smiles again, bobbing her head. This is better than him giving up, than them losing their candidate just after they’ve finally crossed the primary hurdle. This is what she needs from him, and if it means that she has to put up with him moving closer again, tightening his grip on her and leaning in for– 

 

For–

 

She slaps him out of sheer instinct as he moves in for a kiss, his lips centimeters away when her hand connects with his head. His face is shoved to the side, away from her, and he’s startled enough by it that Regina can stumble back and spit out, “What the  _ hell _ do you think you’re doing?” 

 

Robin tilts his head, looking very baffled. “I thought…we were having a moment…”

 

“You’re married to my  _ best friend _ !” Regina says, horrified. She looks around frantically, relieved that no one is watching them. “I’m a–” She lowers her voice. “I’m a  _ lesbian _ !” 

 

“You don’t look at me like you’re one,” Robin challenges her. “I saw the way you watched me during my speech. The way you look at me when I’m doing well in front of an audience. I see the way you shiver when I touch you–” He reaches out to caress her face again.

 

Regina slips away from him, repulsed and over her limit. “With  _ revulsion _ ,” she hisses. “Because I’m  _ uncomfortable _ . Not because I’m secretly in love with you!” 

 

“Regina,” Robin says patiently. “It’s all right. I know you feel as though…as though you owe this to Marian, and I respect that. But I think that what we have is something more than that, isn’t it? It’s something we deserve to hold onto, regardless of what obstacles there might be.” He looks suddenly conflicted. “I don’t want to hurt Marian. I truly don’t. But I just don’t see another way.” 

 

“Another way?” Regina echoes furiously. She feels unclean, as though she’s been doused with some kind of unwashable paint that everyone can see. How many others had seen Robin’s behavior and thought she’d  _ wanted  _ it? “How about you back the  _ fuck  _ down?” She lowers her voice, careful of what people might notice. “I’m not interested in you. I’m…I’m dating  _ Storybrooke _ , okay? I get excited when you  _ get  _ Storybrooke. And I thought you were a decent choice, but…god.” She presses the heels of her hands to her eyes as Robin looks on, still with a  _ damned  _ knowing smile on his face. As though he can see right through her, as though he actually thinks that she’s trying to hide some… 

 

Some…

 

“Tell me you’ve never done this to another woman,” she demands, voice hard as steel. “Tell me you’ve never cheated on Marian or– or harassed a coworker or–” She can’t even finish the sentence. She wants to shower, to scrub away the makeup on her cheeks where he’d touched her, to get as far away from him as possible.

 

Robin is quick to shake his head. “I wouldn’t,” he says, sounding offended at the question. “I would never.” 

 

He isn’t lying. His face is transparent, and he isn’t lying about this, and Regina can breathe. “You just  _ did _ .” 

 

Robin shakes his head again. “We both know that’s different,” he says. “I’m in love with you, Regina. I would leave Marian for–” 

 

“Shut up.” Regina cuts him off, her heart pounding and frantic. “Shut the fuck up right now. Listen to me. We are going to forget any of this happened. You are going to be the perfect candidate, the perfect gentleman, and you are  _ never  _ going to pull this kind of shit again,” she bites out. She isn’t conciliatory anymore, no more kid gloves to treat the candidate like royalty. “I don’t want you touching me again. I don’t want you alone with me at  _ all _ . Or any women on the team. Understood?” 

 

He’s staring dumbly at her, as though he can’t grasp what she’s saying, and she wants to sob with frustration. “Please go away,” she says finally. “Go back to your…your  _ amazing  _ wife who deserves so much better than you. Try to be even half the person she thinks you are.  _ Dammit _ ,” she says, and she feels ill, her stomach churning. “Just go.” 

 

He goes. He’s still good at following directions, which has always been his best trait–

 

But then he pauses and says, “I know you’re trying to do the right thing.” His back is turned to her, his eyes distant, and she wants to scream at his sheer oblivious entitlement. “I know you think that this is the honorable thing to do, and that’s…that’s part of why I care so deeply for you. But we can’t fight this forever.” 

 

Regina trembles with fury and despair. “If you ever touch me again, I will set your hand on fire,” she says, and Robin walks away, out of the shadows and back onto the dance floor.

 

Regina is barely alone for a moment before there’s another voice behind her, a familiar one that doesn’t feel comforting right now. It’s Sidney, who holds out a hand expectantly, and she has no choice but to take it and dance with him as well. 

 

He doesn’t stand too close. He’s always respected her space, though he watches her with the expression of someone who would cross that barrier the moment she’d invite him over the threshold. Today, it feels claustrophobic, another man who believes he has some ownership over her, who takes smiles and kindness to be a sign that she wants him. Today, every touch feels like a violation, and she wants to cry. She wants to not be touched by another man again.

 

Instead, she finishes the dance, gives him a warm smile and chats with a dozen wealthy businessmen about what a man of vision Robin is, and she feels close to collapsing when she finally moves away from the dance floor and slips into the aisles in the back. The music plays on, never missing a beat, never once acknowledging how the world has shaken beneath Regina’s feet today. Regina blinks away tears, rapidly threatening to overflow and fall, and she makes it nearly to the office when Emma says, “Regina?”

 

She sounds alarmed, and Regina raises her eyes to look at Emma. Emma’s hair is slipping out of its updo, her tux rumpled and her eyes narrowed in concern. “You just disappeared there,” she says, looking Regina up and down. “I was searching everywhere for you.” Emma, who had noticed how  _ wrong  _ Robin’s behavior had been in the first place, who had thrown herself between them earlier, who had asked Regina, just a little while ago, to dance.

 

It isn’t a good idea. Emma is dating her brother, is absolutely infatuated with him, is probably in denial about her own sexuality. It’s a bad idea, but Regina craves Emma’s hands on her, craves a touch she wants and can ask for, a tiny bit of healing for something that may never quite heal right. And today, she is too weak to resist it.

 

She reaches out for Emma and lays her hands on Emma’s shoulders.

 

* * *

 

Regina is dancing with her. Emma doesn’t know exactly how it had happened, except that she’d been standing opposite Regina and Regina had laid her hands on Emma so gently that Emma had nearly gasped aloud. Now they’re moving together, less of a ballroom dance than just swaying together, and Regina murmurs, “Is this okay?” 

 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course it is,” Emma says, her heart flipping in her chest. She can’t reach for her necklace now, when her hands are on Regina’s back and her shoulder, and it shouldn’t  _ matter _ , because this isn’t about… _ that _ . She knows it instinctively. “Are  _ you  _ okay?” 

 

She’d last seen Regina with Robin, and she knows better than to ask Regina about him without Regina getting angry again. Still, she worries, wary of what Robin might have done to leave Regina so shaken.

 

But Regina only says, “I am,” a quiet response that  _ must  _ be a lie, and she rests her head against Emma’s shoulder and snakes her arms around Emma’s waist. She holds on tightly, as though Emma might be her anchor right now, and Emma is awash with quiet worry at this softer, vulnerable Regina.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” she ventures finally.

 

Regina laughs, a sob in her throat, and Emma pulls her closer and waits. “I want to dance,” Regina whispers in response, and she closes her eyes, moving slowly with Emma. She doesn’t speak again, just holds onto Emma, and Emma strokes her back, holds Regina tucked beneath her chin, sways in silence.

 

It’s strange. For all their sniping and grudging respect– for all the months of teamwork and the thing they’d been doing that hadn’t been flirting but hadn’t quite been fighting either– Emma can’t remember many times when Regina had allowed herself to be this vulnerable around others. She folds into Neal sometimes after bad run-ins with her mother, and she lets Marian comfort her in rare moments, but Regina holds herself so strong and distant that Emma had never thought she’d be the one that Regina might come to.

 

She hurts for Regina, for whatever had gone so terribly wrong that it had left Regina so fragile, and she wants desperately to fight whoever had done this, Robin or another guest or– or maybe that Mal, whom Emma hadn’t trusted–

 

And Regina curls her fingers around Emma’s waist and Emma’s heart flips because of another reason entirely. Regina is so  _ close _ , closer than she’s been since primary night, and Emma is without words again. It’s easy to pretend that she doesn’t want this desperately when she’s with Neal and Regina isn’t in close proximity. It’s easy then to tell herself that this is some little  _ crush _ , that she’s just wildly attracted to Regina and nothing more.

 

It’s more difficult here, wrapped around Regina, feeling Regina’s comfortable weight in her arms and the way she fits like she belongs. It’s like a slow, building realization, the kind of warmth that grows and grows until Emma is aflame with understanding, with feelings she can’t shake, with something so much more potent than simple attraction.

 

It’s bad. It’s really, really bad, and she shoves it back down, deep into a corner of her heart that she slams shut with finality. Emma is accustomed to compartmentalizing, to repressing, to pushing aside all the most unacceptable emotions that might be her undoing.

 

She brushes her lips against Regina’s hair for one instant, a stray emotion that she hadn’t managed to lock away in time. Regina exhales a shuddery breath, her fingers still digging into Emma’s waist, and Emma closes her eyes and shifts one hand to play with a curl of Regina’s hair.  

 

When Regina speaks, it’s in a quiet, subdued voice. “Your fundraiser might have saved this campaign,” she murmurs. “This has been a rousing success.” 

 

Emma flushes. “It wasn’t just me,” she says swiftly, uncomfortable with the praise. “Sabine did a ton of the work, and Tamara helped with the calls. It was a group effort. Your speech was…it was really good,” she says, and she watches Regina as she ventures, uncertain, “Listening to it, I actually believed that the candidate might make a good mayor.” 

 

Regina smiles, and it doesn’t reach her eyes. Emma watches in chagrin. “Regina,” she murmurs. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but– I want to  _ punch  _ someone,” she admits, which is both true and serves the purpose of making Regina bark out a little laugh. “I have to do something.” 

 

“Just…” Regina looks up at her properly for the first time, catches her eyes and holds them. “Please just dance with me,” she murmurs, and it sounds almost pleading.

 

Emma dances with her, outside of the romantic lighting and decorations on the other side of the store. Here there are just stark white aisles selling sporting goods and classical music filtering across the building, and it still has unwanted emotions banging on the door where she’d locked them away, demanding entry once more. 

 

The music is winding down, the night coming to a close, and their dancing slows to a simple embrace just in time for Neal to arrive, bounding down the aisle and looking in concern at them. Emma freezes, caught out, but Neal only has eyes for Regina in her arms. “Hey,” he says, reaching for her, and he tugs Regina from Emma’s arms into his own with nothing but honest concern. “What’s going on?” 

 

Another wave of guilt, this one stronger than before. They hadn’t  _ done  _ anything, Emma reminds herself, but she can see the same guilt in Regina’s eyes. They both look away together, and Regina says, “I don’t know,” her voice tired and honest. “I’m sick of dancing.” 

 

Neal’s eyes clear with understanding. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, stroking Regina’s hair. “I know how much you hate being someone you’re not.” It’s surprisingly insightful from Neal, a level to this that Emma hasn’t contemplated much, and Emma swallows back more guilt. They hadn’t done anything. They  _ hadn’t _ .

 

“I have something that might cheer you up, though,” he says, and he digs into his pocket and emerges with an envelope. “We’ve gotten a good number of them, but she said this one was for your eyes only.” 

 

Regina opens the envelope, eyebrows shooting up as she pulls out a check. She barks out a sudden laugh and turns the check around for Emma to see. It’s from Tina Bell, of course, made out to the campaign with a very generous contribution written below. In the lower left corner of the check, Tina had written  **_FUCK HER UP YOU MAGNIFICENT ASSHOLE_ ** in bold green letters.

 

“She really, really hates your mother,” Neal says, grinning, and Regina shakes her head and laughs until she’s crying, just a little, Neal holding her in his arms while Emma watches helplessly. 

 

Maybe she had only been convenient, before, a woman to dance with at a party when Regina had felt overwhelmed and alone. Maybe she’d overestimated this odd connection they seem to have.  _ Fine _ . It’s fine, because they  _ can’t  _ have a connection, and there  _ can’t  _ be feelings involved, and Emma is with the only person who’s ever loved her and it’s not like Regina would ever be with her,  _ anyway _ . 

 

She knocks over a fishing pole on her jerky return to the dance floor, where Robin and Marian are bidding farewell to enthusiastic guests. Tamara weaves through the crowd, collecting checks and shaking hands, and Jacinda is still taking her last few pictures. It’s nearly midnight, and Emma’s biggest project during the campaign is over at last. 

 

Regina and Neal return once the guests are gone, and they oversee the cleanup. “That was amazing,” Ruby says fervently. “I can’t believe we pulled that off.” 

 

“We exceeded our estimates, too,” Regina says. She’s sitting at a table now, the checks and her laptop in front of her as she tallies them up. “And that’s just checks and pledges from tonight.” She beams, bright-eyed with only shadows lurking at the corners of her gaze. “We can’t get too confident, but this is…certainly a step forward.” 

 

Sabine nudges her. “It’s a whole fucking jump,” she corrects her, scanning through the pictures as she picks out the ones for Facebook and Twitter. Jacinda hovers behind her, a hand lingering on Sabine’s shoulder as she peers at them. Emma wonders suddenly if they’d been able to dance together tonight, too. Maybe they’d found a quiet, uncontroversial corner somewhere. No one knows who they are here, not like Cora Mills’s daughter. Storybrooke is old-fashioned, but they have no grand plans that require them to hide away their love. 

 

“We really did that,” Marian says, and she smiles broadly at them all. “And it wasn’t nearly as miserable as we thought it might be.” She turns to grin at her husband. His smile back is broad, but there’s something very false about it, something that has Emma’s eyes narrowing in renewed suspicious.

 

“Quite right,” he agrees. “Well done, all.” He makes a motion toward Regina and then shifts, shaking Neal’s hand instead. Emma chews on her lip and moves, very deliberately, to stand between Regina and Robin. 

 

But he doesn’t approach her tonight, thankfully, and they pile out of the superstore in groups, still exhilarated at another victory. Neal drives on the way home, and Emma puts her feet up on the windshield, scrolling through the pictures on Facebook. “Why did no one tell me that my hair looked like  _ that _ ?” she complains, eyeballing a photo of her dancing with Neal. She can see Regina in the background of it, looking perfect as always, enough that she still steals Emma’s breath away. 

 

“You looked beautiful,” Neal says, rolling his eyes at her. “Regina said the same thing.” 

 

“That I looked beautiful?” Emma says without thinking, and promptly turns red.

 

Neal snorts. “That her hair was anything less than perfect.  _ Women _ .” Emma shoots him a dark look and returns to the pictures, scrolling to the next. It’s of Tamara and a man she vaguely recognizes from the newspaper, another faceless politician, and Emma touches her finger to the corner of the picture to scroll to the next–

 

_ Wait _ . She squints at the picture again, brightening her phone’s screen and zooming in. What she sees makes her nauseous, sick with horror and fear, and she whispers, “No. Oh, no,” her heart pounding a drumbeat against her rib cage. 

 

Neal frowns at her. “Emma?” he says, pulling over in front of the apartment. 

 

“Call Sabine. Get these taken down. Take them  _ down _ !” she says, her voice nearly a shriek, and her phone falls to the floor of the car with a thump as Neal watches her with rising bewilderment that Emma knows will soon be fury and despair.

  
And with a surge of broken rage, Emma knows at once that they are well and truly  _ fucked _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The content warning above was for, as those of you who have already read the chapter will know, the buildup to and the attempted nonconsensual kiss.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am super overwhelmed rn and trying desperately to keep to my writing schedule but I wanted to thank all of you so, so much for the feedback for last chapter! This arc has me _hype_ (and a lil stressed) and it's been so wonderful seeing all your reactions and thoughts on it. This chapter is plottier than shippier (I think it's the ONLY one tBH because next chapter is a gooey mass of shippiness) but I hope you'll enjoy it!!
> 
> Warning that this chapter will have more discussion about what happened last chapter. And much thanks to Tuna for helping me iron out some of the dicier stuff I wanted to do this chapter!!
> 
> Enjoy!!

**JULY 6**

_ 122 Days Until the General Election _

 

There is nothing to do that night but pace furiously while Neal calls Regina over and over again and gets her voicemail. “Maybe we can fix this without her knowing,” he says, fists clenched. “If no one saw– just Sabine and Jacinda and us– then…” He looks angry, angrier than Emma’s ever seen him.

 

Emma’s furious, too, so much so that she can feel frustrated tears threatening to fall. “I gotta–” she starts, and then she runs out of words and flees into the bedroom instead. 

 

She cries, which is  _ stupid _ , because what the fuck, it hadn’t even happened to  _ her _ . But the image is seared into her mind. Behind Tamara and the politician, Regina had been backed into a dark corner, eyes wide and afraid as Robin had leaned in to kiss her, a hand restraining Regina’s arm so she couldn’t pull away. Emma feels sick. 

 

Emma thinks back to searching for Regina in that dim room, certain that something bad had been about to happen, and she hadn’t found her in time. She cries, curling into a ball in the bed, cries for Regina who had been so defiantly protective of a candidate who’d deserved none of it, cries for Marian, who’s about to find out something horrifying, cries for a campaign that’s fading away in the blink of an eye.

 

Neal comes in after a long time, looking very angry as he snarls into the phone, “Then what good are you?” and tosses it onto the dresser with enough force that it sends Emma’s earrings and necklace flying. He retrieves them, staring at the snowflake necklace blankly for a long time.

 

“Who was that on the phone?” Emma asks. 

 

“Tamara,” Neal says automatically, and Emma looks at him with a furrowed brow and red eyes. Neal lowers his gaze. “Not Tamara,” he concedes. “But no one who can help us.” He lets out another angry sigh, closing his hand around the necklace and then setting it down. “If the media got that picture, Regina’s going to have her personal life plastered all over every single online gossip mag that’s been  _ waiting  _ to tear her down–” 

 

“And the campaign,” Emma says blankly. 

 

“The campaign.” Neal looks as though he hasn’t even thought of that yet. “ _ Shit. _ I want to tear Locksley from limb to limb.” 

 

Emma lets out another shuddering sob, and Neal looks at her with his brow furrowed. “Em, it isn’t your fault. No one could have seen this coming–” 

 

“ _ Everyone  _ saw it coming,” Emma says, twisting around to stare at him. “Everyone. We all saw the way he was with her– the way he kept  _ touching  _ her and taking every excuse to be alone with her–” She gulps in a breath. “I tried to talk to her about it and she was sure it was harmless. That he was just a little too handsy. I saw him go off to dance with her and I was  _ scared _ , god, Neal, how did you not  _ see _ it?” 

 

Neal is staring at her in silence, his eyes narrowed and his face very pale. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know how I…” He sinks down onto the bed, his head falling into his hands. “Is that why you were hugging her at the back of the store?” 

 

“We were dancing,” Emma says flatly. She has no energy for deception or for hiding right now. “I thought she just wanted a break from all the men there. But she must have come straight from…from whatever happened in Jacinda’s picture.” They still don’t know the extent of it, which is a whole new horrific conversation to have. Jacinda had found a second picture after it with Regina’s hand in motion to slap Robin, but that’s all they’ve seen of the exchange. Only the two people involved know what had happened. 

 

She can feel the tears bubbling up again, and she blinks them away, reaching for her phone. She dials Regina’s number and gets no response, and then she opens her browser and searches for something else. 

 

She finds it in a PDF titled  _ A Candidate’s Guide – Maine.gov _ , after scrolling through page after page as Neal sits in silence beside her. There it is, finally, written in a grey box at the bottom of a page, and she passes the phone to Neal without a word.

_ A candidate nominated by a party at the primary election must withdraw on or before 5 p.m. of the 2nd Monday in July  _ **_(July 14)_ ** _ preceding the general election in order to be replaced by the party no later than 5 p.m. of the 4th Monday in July  _ **_(July 28)_ ** _ preceding the general election. _

 

* * *

 

Regina wakes up to three sets of notifications on her phone that have her alarmed. First, over a dozen missed calls from Neal, Tamara, and Jacinda, which is never a good sign. Second, Emma has called her once and texted twice.  **_hope you slept well, please call me asap_ ** _ ,  _ and then, an hour later,  **_it’s gonna be okay, i swear_ ** . Regina stares at the messages with her heart beating nearly out of her chest and her eyes thick with tears far too early in the morning.

 

Last night had been exhausting, and she’d left an event before most of the others for the first time ever. She’d been left with impressions– Emma in her arms, Tina’s check, the applause of the audience, Robin looming closer and closer until she hadn’t been able to breathe– and they’d flashed through her mind over and over again until she’d collapsed into bed, worn out as never before. 

 

She really, really wants to reply to Emma, and she also knows that she can’t. Instead, she turns to the third alarming notification: an email with far more Google Alerts for her name than–

 

_ Oh _ . It’s strange, really, how quickly the fight has been drained out of her. Somehow, there is no surprise in the headline  **_MAINE CAMPAIGN DARLING HAVING AN AFFAIR WITH HER CANDIDATE!_ ** or  **_NEAL CASSIDY’S SISTER CAUGHT RED-HANDED WITH THE BOSS!_ ** It is exactly what she should have anticipated, the worst-case scenario yet again.

 

_ No _ . The worst-case scenario is the next alert, from a women’s online magazine.  **_ROBIN LOCKSLEY’S ASSAULT OF REGINA MILLS SHEDS LIGHT ON ANOTHER PITFALL WOMEN FACE IN POLITICS_ ** . Regina chokes back bile, the campaign fizzling before her eyes, and scrolls to the next.

 

The magazines seem undecided as to whether or not the attempted kiss had been consensual. On one end is the promise of scandal, a juicy affair that puts someone whom gossip magazines like to call the  _ Evil Queen _ under attack. On the other end is what the picture they have seems to imply. Regina stares at it over a mechanical breakfast, sees the apprehension in her eyes and a dozen ways she could have stepped out of Robin’s grasp. She hadn’t seen any of them last night, when he’d been too close and she hadn’t known what to do.

 

Neal is calling again, her phone vibrating as she drinks her coffee. Regina leaves it to voicemail and gets dressed, pulling one arm through a sleeve and then the other, buttoning up her pantsuit and then eyeing herself critically in the mirror. She looks businesslike, formal. Good. 

 

She does her makeup, contouring and outlining her eyes just so as her phone pings again and again, and she finds a banana and a stick of cheese in the fridge and tucks them into her bag for lunch. She walks to the door, the phone buzzing with another call, opens the door, and then, finally, it all dawns on her.

 

She staggers in her doorway, her knees buckling, and she reaches out to steady herself with her hands on opposite doorposts, hanging on for dear life as she trembles. She doesn’t sob. She isn’t going to cry about  _ this _ , it’s just a setback and she refuses to let Robin’s idiocy or the media’s hunger dictate what happens next. They can fix this. They’re going to fix this.

 

She looks down, her eyes blurring, and sees her copy of the  _ Daily Mirror  _ lying on the floor in the apartment building hallway. She drops to her knees at last, slides the newspaper out of its plastic, and stares at the front page headline.  **_DINNER DANCE FUNDRAISER BRINGS STORYBROOKE SUPERSTORE TO LIFE_ ** . The byline is Sidney’s, and it describes the fundraiser in glowing terms. There are no references to the picture that has consumed the rest of their publicity–

 

–They’ve just lost  _ all those donors _ . Regina jerks her phone up, says, “Siri, call Sidney Glass.” 

 

He drives up without question, waits in front of her building as she slides into the car. “Can I fix this?” she says, without preamble.

 

“I got an anonymous call at midnight warning me not to run it,” Sidney says. “Not that I was going to in the first place. That isn’t news. It’s tabloid fodder.” He leans back in his seat, hesitates at a stop sign, and turns to face her. “I can finish him,” he says. “Give me the interview, and I will make sure he can never set foot in this town again.” 

 

“No,” Regina says immediately. Sidney doesn’t push. She’d known he wouldn’t, and she’s grateful for it. “I am going to salvage this campaign.” 

 

Sidney looks at her. “With that candidate?” he says, and she has no response for him. 

 

She leaves the car and walks into campaign headquarters. The office falls silent as she steps inside, all eyes fixed on her. Jacinda looks guilty, Mulan sympathetic, Tamara grim. Neal’s teeth are gritted together, and Emma is wavering in place, her eyes raw with grief. “Everyone see the news this morning?” Regina asks, and they all speak at once. She raises her voice. “The  _ Daily Mirror  _ did a lovely feature on our fundraiser,” she says, holding the paper up. “I hope you all read it. Last night was a rousing success, thanks to everyone here.” She inclines her head, smiles, and applauds. 

 

Emma claps with her, her movements wooden, and Neal joins in a moment later. Slowly but surely, everyone is applauding, with weak smiles and uncertain eyes, and Regina exhales and moves to her seat. She looks up. “Has the candidate been in today?” 

 

“The  _ candidate _ ,” Sabine echoes, acerbic. “Are we– are we really going to sit around and pretend that he didn’t–” 

 

“Sabine,” Jacinda says, touching her arm. Sabine wrenches it away. “We do this Regina’s way,” Jacinda murmurs. “Regina makes the calls here.” 

 

Sabine says, “I won’t–” She stops, and Emma stands abruptly. The door is opening again, and Regina looks up and feels her stomach drop. It’s Robin and Marian, grinning at each other as Marian pushes the door open. She has no idea, Regina knows at once. Marian avoids the media news about the campaign, finding most of it distasteful, and Robin only looks when they bring it to him.

 

“Morning!” Marian says cheerily. “We brought donuts– Emma–?” Emma stalks past her, cocks her fist and then slams it into Robin’s face. “Emma!” Marian gasps. 

 

Robin teeters back in position, blood leaking from his nose as he gapes at her. Emma pulls her fist back again, and Neal hurries behind her and seizes her elbow. “Emma,  _ stop _ ,” he says, and Robin looks at him in gratitude. Neal’s lip curls, and he nudges Emma to the side as he punches Robin hard in the face as well. 

 

Robin staggers backward, holding onto the wall in an attempt not to fall to the ground, and Marian stares at them in betrayal, in confusion at everyone else who watches without a word, and then in sudden, slow suspicion. “What’s going on here?” she says. 

 

Regina says, raising her voice. “Back off, Neal. Emma.” She sounds hoarse, as though there are unshed tears in her throat. Robin looks trapped, afraid, and she finds that she doesn’t dislike that. “We can’t have our candidate with a broken nose when the general election is coming.” 

 

“What is going  _ on _ ?” Marian asks, her voice rising, and she looks beseechingly to Regina for guidance. Regina blinks hard, looks down, is terrified of what might happen–

 

Marian has done so  _ much  _ for her, had given her a home when she hadn’t had one– had been an adult in Regina’s life when she’d desperately needed a big sister– and Regina is going to hurt her as she’s never been hurt before. Regina takes a breath, and she can’t find the words. 

 

It’s Mulan who steps forward and says, “Marian,” turning her laptop screen to face Marian. Marian sees the picture that must be plastered across it, and Regina looks down, is afraid of what accusations might be in Marian’s eyes.

 

A moment, an intake of breath, and Marian is fleeing from campaign headquarters. Mulan stands, following behind her, the door slamming behind her. Robin lurches against the wall, stares at all of them with a trapped look on his face. Tamara says mildly, “What now?” 

 

All eyes are on Regina, and she is at a loss for a moment. They’re counting on her to get them through this, just as she always does, but she doesn’t know what to do now. She’s been running on adrenaline for weeks, pushing aside all her doubts and insecurities, and now she feels trapped, nauseous as she had last night. 

 

“I don’t see that we have any other option,” Regina says. Neal and Emma exchange a glance, rife with meaning that they don’t share, and Regina looks away from them as a spike of pain passes through her. “We need the candidate. We need to save this campaign. So here’s what we’re going to do.” 

 

She clears her throat, a half-baked plan coming into being. “We…for all intents and purposes, that– indiscretion– was consensual,” she says, feeling sick. “A mistake on my part. I thought Robin’s...Robin’s natural charm was something more and acted on it. I’ll apologize to the media and to Marian and Robin.” 

 

Seven gazes bore into hers. Emma says, “Regina…” and sounds heartsick. Regina avoids her gaze.

 

“This is what you want to do?” Tamara says, shaking her head. “Throw yourself under the bus for  _ him _ ?” She jerks a thumb at Robin with distaste.

 

Regina shakes her head. “I want to save Storybrooke,” she says. “I need all of you on board. I’ll step back, take a less prominent part in the campaign until this blows over.” She scoffs. “Killian Jones has a history of womanizing. Robin is still a more viable candidate than he is. And this is all a distraction from policy–” 

 

“Your policy advisor just walked out,” Tamara says. She looks uncomfortable. Everyone in the room looks uncomfortable. Ruby is playing with her fingers. Neal’s brow is furrowed, Jacinda is biting her lip, Sabine is staring blankly at her computer. Emma’s eyes are on Regina, and she looks desolate, hurting where Regina can’t allow herself to hurt.

 

They need some authority, someone to step forward and take the lead again, and Regina straightens. “Well, when she comes back, we’ll need to draft a new plan going forward. Sabine, let’s put together a press release. Ruby, Emma, we want to do more outreach within Storybrooke now. We have the whole summer for events, and plenty of funding to put into it. Tamara, let’s give the media a day or two to stew. I want to figure out what our party line is.” 

 

She hesitates, makes eye contact with Robin. He smiles gratefully. She says, feeling sick as she thinks about it, “What the hell are you doing here? Go after your wife.” They all blink at her, and Regina snaps out, “What are you waiting for? Go!”  

 

The team scatters, moving to work with just a few uncertain glances back at her. Regina stands alone, watching as Robin straightens, walking slowly to the door.

 

Regina turns, stalking to the office.

 

Somehow, she isn’t surprised when Emma follows her in. “What now?” she demands, her back to the door. “Here to tell me that you told me so? That I could have stopped this before it destroyed the campaign?” 

 

“You didn’t know,” Emma murmurs. “You wanted to believe the best in someone. You think you’re the first person to get drunk on idealism and miss what was right in front of you?” It’s a quiet weight lifted from Regina with those simple words, an acceptance that she hadn’t expected from Emma, who had warned her. Emma takes in a shuddering breath. “I saw him dance off with you and I was so  _ worried _ . And then I couldn’t find you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

 

“It’s not– it’s not your fault,” Regina says, whirling around. She wants to be angry, but she can’t, not when Emma looks so stricken. “I made my own decisions. I did something incredibly  _ stupid  _ and–” 

 

“Then it’s Robin’s fault. Not yours.” Emma’s eyes blaze. “It isn’t on you that he decided to make a move on you. It isn’t on anyone but him.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “This is a shitshow.” 

 

Regina snorts. “You’re telling me.” Her shoulders sag. “I keep thinking back to…to all the times I spent with Marian before the campaign. If there was something I said– if there was something  _ he  _ said–” She takes a breath. “God, Marian must hate me right now.”

 

It’s difficult to think about anything else, now that the room is quiet. Marian has been a mainstay in her life since the day that Regina had charged into her house, in desperate need of help. Marian has been there for every crisis, quietly helpful and supportive, and Regina has always seen her as…steady. Someone to be there for her at the worst of times. She had never had opportunity to reciprocate, much, and it had gnawed at her for far too long.

 

Now, Marian is in crisis, and Regina is the reason for it. Marian is one of the only real friends she has, and Regina has  _ lost  _ her, has let her down and– 

 

“Marian won’t hate you,” Emma murmurs, laying a hand on her back. Regina shudders. Emma’s proximity still makes her throat close up, another thing she’s somehow fucked up. “She knows you didn’t do this. Aside from…you know, the whole lesbian thing. You’d never do anything to hurt the campaign.” 

 

Regina smiles, humorless. “Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? I still did.” 

 

They stand in silence for a few minutes, Emma’s hand still resting on Regina’s back. Regina thinks of Robin, running off to make excuses to Marian, to use Regina as the scapegoat she’d offered herself up to be. She doesn’t know if she wants him to succeed and do  _ better  _ or if she wants him to  _ get the hell away from _ –

 

“Regina,” Emma says, and she takes a deep breath before she speaks. “You don’t have to drown yourself to keep this ship sailing.” 

 

Regina grimaces. It’s almost a smile, except she  _ refuses _ to smile right now, to be  _ fond  _ when everything is collapsing around her. “Poetic,” she says dryly. “Did you just spend the past five minutes thinking that–” She stops. Emma is holding out her phone, a page open on her browser, and Regina reads it warily.

 

_ A candidate nominated by a party at the primary election must withdraw on or before 5 p.m. of the 2nd Monday in July  _ **_(July 14)_ ** _ preceding the general election in order to be replaced by the party no later than 5 p.m. of the 4th Monday in July  _ **_(July 28)_ ** _ preceding the general election. _

 

She knows the clause. She’d memorized the handbook before they’d begun, and she’d recalled that particular clause when she’d first selected her candidate. She hasn’t thought about it since, and she shakes her head violently now and whirls around. “We aren’t using that. The campaign  _ works _ as it is– has gotten us this far–” 

 

Turning to face Emma had been a mistake. Emma’s face is grave but earnest, sad in a way that stings. “Well, clearly it isn’t working anymore,” she says, and a hint of despair peeks through. 

 

There have been far too many moments when Regina has desperately wanted to kiss Emma, to be with her in every way no matter how much she  _ can’t _ , but this is something else entirely. She wants to hold her, to borrow strength of conviction that feels like it’s faltering right now. “Emma…” 

 

Emma shakes her head. “You need to…to slow down, a little,” she says firmly. “Everyone’s worried about you.” A breath, and then, softer, “I’m worried about you. Neal, too,” she adds quickly, and she touches her necklace, looks away with chagrin. Regina watches her in gripped misery.

 

She straightens a moment later, managing a smile. “Go for a walk. Somewhere farther than that bench outside. Get some ice cream.” Regina laughs. Emma narrows her eyes at her. “That isn’t a figure of speech. Go get an ice cream cone. At least two scoops.” 

 

“I don’t like–” 

 

Emma’s eyes get a little darker. “Don’t  _ lie _ to me,” she scoffs, and then lowers her voice, eyes so earnestly worried that Regina thinks she might shatter beneath them. “Don’t look at social media. Don’t read the news. Take some time to yourself. You deserve it.” Emma reaches out, runs a hand along Regina’s arm. The touch is light, glancing, and Regina aches only at how soft it is, at the way that Emma’s fingers tangle in hers.

 

They  _ can’t _ – “We…” Regina starts, but the words stick in her throat. “We…” 

 

Emma’s fingers close around Regina’s phone and then retract, phone in hand. “Go,” she says gently, and if she weren’t lightly pink-cheeked, Regina might think that what she’d just done had been harmless.

 

Nothing that they do is harmless anymore. They’re another powder keg well on its way to explosion, and Regina feels sick, thinking about it today. 

 

If she were smart, she’d pick a fight with Emma and push her away right now. “Okay,” she says instead.

 

* * *

 

Regina is out for a long time. Knowing Regina, she’s probably purchased a burner phone and is doing interviews with Anna Arendelle right now. Emma likes to think that she’s eating ice cream from Any Given Sundae and chatting with the people in the store about Locksley for Storybrooke. The media firestorm is imminent, but without it being in the daily newspaper, its effect on the town should be staggered.

 

_ Small favors _ . Emma logs onto the computer she shares with Ruby and scrolls through page after page of gossip on Twitter. There is plenty of speculation as to what had happened in that picture. Overwhelmingly, male wannabe pundits with pasty faces in their icons are certain that Regina had been seducing Robin, that it had been some kind of secret affair.  **_Look at the body language. Look at how she’s kind of tilted toward him. That’s a woman beckoning in a helpless man. I mean, can you blame him? She’s a fox._ **

 

Women are less convinced, are crusading through Twitter already with choice comments about Robin and what a man in power can do to his underlings. Already, reporters from cities far beyond Maine are talking about the picture and about the debate, are writing thinkpieces about Cora Mills’s daughter who’d gotten caught up in the ugly side of politics, are wondering what it is that the campaign will do with this live wire they have in their headquarters, be it Regina or Robin.

 

Emma hopes desperately that Regina doesn’t see any of it. It’s only a matter of time, though. Sabine has already received over a dozen emails from various newspapers, requesting a comment, and she shoves her keyboard away from her in disgust. “What am I supposed to  _ say _ ?” she demands in a fury. “Even ‘no comment’ is a comment! And I can’t– Regina’s whole  _ fucking  _ plan–” 

 

“Hey,” Neal says, and Sabine gives him a glare so hard that he takes a step back. 

 

Emma says, “Well? Anyone have a better plan?” Silence.

 

She has ideas, vague ones that don’t ever crystallize in her mind. She’s good at ideas, usually, but she needs Regina there to shoot them down, to demand better, more specific solutions. Without Regina, they’re all flailing, and they all know it. 

 

The door to the office opens, and everyone looks up with sudden hope. Emma winces. Regina had better  _ not  _ be back already–

 

But it’s worse. It’s Robin, grinning at them all and looking determinedly jolly. “Well,” he says, “What are we up to today?” 

 

They all stare at him. There is very little as jarring as the source of their stress sauntering into the office as though he owns it, and Jacinda responds, eyes narrowing, “Waiting for you to step down?” 

 

Robin laughs jauntily. “Funny,” he says, and then he seems to realize that no one is laughing. He frowns, looking put-upon. “I’m here because Regina still believes that I’m the best man for the job. One small misunderstanding is hardly a reason to give up on Storybrooke.” 

 

There is something about this incident that seems to have galvanized him like never before. He has always been easygoing, quick to listen to the team and agree with whatever they think is best. Now, though, he walks with new confidence, with a smug sort of surety that his position here is a given.

 

Emma wants, very desperately, to punch him in the face again. Neal says, eyes narrowed, “You don’t need to be here today, Locksley.” He’s angry again, angrier than Emma’s ever seen him before. Neal is usually the only  _ calm  _ one in the office, the one who’s laid back enough that most crises leave him unruffled. Regina being hurt has made him someone dark and furious. 

 

Robin isn’t intimidated. “I would think that Regina would want me here–” 

 

“ _ Stop saying her name _ ,” Neal snarls, and he whips his head around and turns to Emma. “Em. I need you to take the candidate out of here. I don’t know. Go chat with constituents. Keep him busy.” 

 

Emma stares at him in dismay. “Why me?” she says aloud, a little whiny. 

 

Neal shrugs, eyes still flinty hard as he looks at Robin. “I don’t trust him with any of the women in this room,” he says darkly. “But I know that you’re fully capable of flattening him if necessary.” Robin looks mildly alarmed. Neal says, “It’s fine if you do flatten him. Very fine. Preferable, even.” 

 

Robin scoffs. “You need this face,” he says, patting a bruised cheek, and Emma begins to very seriously consider if she might be a lesbian, after all.

 

“Don’t talk to me,” she orders him as she stalks out the door, Robin behind her. “Don’t try to sell this as some kind of–” 

 

Robin says, “Regina and I have a connection. I tried to look past it, to move on. I  _ did _ . But–” 

 

“Oh, my god.  _ Shut up _ ,” Emma says disgustedly. “Have you even  _ spoken _ to your wife?” Robin looks ashamed for the first time. Emma grits her teeth, thinks of Marian, who doesn’t deserve any of this, and stalks on.

 

They wind up at Granny’s, where there are a few friendly smiles from those who haven’t seen the gossip and a few probing stares from those who have. Emma ignores all of them and orders food while Robin sits at the table, expectant. She moves past him out of sheer pettiness and sits at the booth behind him with her lunch, eating mechanically.

 

Regina’s phone has been buzzing all day in her back pocket, and she scans the missed calls and texts on the home screen. Nothing from Marian, though there is an ominous missed call from  _ QUEEN B _ , Neal’s nickname for Cora. Good. Regina doesn’t need to hear from her, either. There are a dozen missed calls from numbers not in Regina’s phone, and two from Sidney Glass. The people are demanding answers for that photo, and no one with answers is willing to give them to them.

 

Robin says from the next booth, “It’s not that I don’t love my wife, because I  _ do _ . But my heart says–” 

 

“I am about ten seconds away from breaking your nose,” Emma says conversationally. 

 

A text from Mulan appears on Regina’s phone.  **_Going to be gone for a few days._ ** It’s abrupt, but the meaning is clear. The phone buzzes again, an afterthought,  **_We’re taking Roland with us._ ** Emma closes her eyes, hurts for Marian and Roland and the family that is crumbling from the inside.

 

When she opens them, a figure stands beside her in black leather. “Ah,” he drawls, but he isn’t talking to her. “There he is. The man of the hour.” 

 

Emma twists around to glare at Killian Jones as he slides into the booth opposite Robin. “I’ve been trying my hand at winning Regina Mills over for months,” he says, smirking at Robin. “I thought you were just a pussy. But you had a plan, eh?” 

 

Robin seems to swell under the other man’s praise. Emma says tightly, “Robin, we’re getting out of here.” 

 

“I don’t think so,” Jones says silkily. “Locksley here is finally finding his backbone in that sea of estrogen you’ve had surrounding him.” He twists his lips into a sneer. “If one of my underlings tried to drag me around the way that yours do, I’d make it clear who I am–”

 

Emma snorts. “What? Cora Mills’s puppet? I knocked you out the first time I  _ met  _ you–” 

 

“Not in my diner!” Granny says sharply from the counter. She’s writing new specials on the chalkboard above the counter, teetering on a ladder as she watches them carefully. “Take it outside, girl. You and those two wastes of space.” 

 

“Granny,” Emma says, suddenly distracted. “Are you sure you should be on that ladder? Do you want me to–” 

 

Granny tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Are you calling me old?” She straightens as Jones begins to murmur to Robin again. “I’ve been doing this since I was twelve, and I will do it until I’m a hundred and twelve– ah–” She slips as she grandstands and Emma flies to her, arms outstretched as Granny topples to the floor–

 

By the time Emma makes it to the counter, Granny is on the ground, her eyes wide and blank as she moans in pain. “Oh, god. Are you okay? I’ll– I’ll call Ruby–” 

 

“Call an  _ ambulance _ ,” Granny moans irritably, and Emma dials 911 instead, Robin and Jones forgotten.

 

* * *

 

Granny has sprained an arm, which is a big deal, but  _ not as big a deal as breaking a hip _ , she assures Ruby and Emma at the hospital. “It’s barely any recovery time,” she says dismissively. “Ruby, go win your campaign with that letch you have running for mayor.” 

 

“I can’t do that,” Ruby says, horrified. “Granny, you got  _ hurt _ because I wasn’t there. I’m not going anywhere.” She turns to Emma, her eyes wide. “I…I was going to do this eventually, anyway,” she says in defeat. “I didn’t mean to do it while the campaign is in shambles, but…”

 

“You do what you need to to take care of your grandmother,” another voice says from the doorway of Granny’s room. Regina strides in, offering them both sad smiles. “Emma can hold the line. You’ve taught her very well.” 

 

She has a little smear of chocolate ice cream at the corner of her lips, and she looks…a little calmer, if not at peace. Emma is pretty sure that Regina is never going to be  _ completely  _ at peace. But she’ll take it. “The others told me you were here,” Regina says, and she steps into the room to give Ruby a hug, then Granny. 

 

Which is totally  _ not  _ a valid thing to be jealous about, but Emma can’t help herself. She digs her fingers into the spokes of her snowflake necklace, reminding herself that at best, Regina and she might have become friends. At  _ best _ . This isn’t a moment for hugs, anyway.

 

Regina is speaking again. “I want you to focus on recovering,” she says solemnly to Granny. “And you–” She points at Ruby, eyes narrowing. “This campaign is  _ not  _ in shambles. And Emma has some very big shoes to fill.” 

 

It isn’t until they’ve left the hospital room and Emma’s returned Regina’s phone that Regina’s shoulders sag and she looks at Emma helplessly. “We’ve lost Ruby, Mulan, and Marian now. How are we going to do this?” 

 

A part of Emma had been hoping that Regina clearing her mind might also mean Regina getting rid of Robin. But that had, perhaps, been too tall an order. “We’ll do it,” Emma says, though she can’t imagine how. “We’ve just got to keep going.” She pauses, takes a breath, and then smiles helplessly. “You’ve got a little…” 

 

Regina spends so much time on looking perfect that it’s a quiet delight to be able to see an imperfection that she hasn’t noticed. Emma reaches out with one finger, swiping away the ice cream stain, and then realizes suddenly the flaw in her plan.

 

Her finger is now resting against Regina’s lips, and she can’t seem to bring herself to move it. They stare at each other with renewed alarm, and Regina looks…wistful, hungry in a way that makes Emma shiver. Emma drags her finger along Regina’s lips, touching them in decidedly not-platonic way, and she lurches forward, desperate, craving–

 

They both pull away at once, clearing their throats and suddenly fascinated by the hospital hallways. “We should go back,” Emma says hoarsely. 

 

“Yes,” Regina agrees, and Emma looks at her and aches again. She’s never experienced this before– not this constant  _ want _ , this need to kiss someone as urgent as to find water in a desert. Regina is different. 

 

Regina changes everything, and Emma swallows and makes a hasty retreat to the stairs.

 

* * *

 

There are eight days left until the deadline for a primary candidate to drop out. Regina shouldn’t be thinking about that, and yet, it lingers in her mind, planted by Emma Swan and germinated by the way that Robin’s been acting since her decision.

 

Emma had left him in the diner with Jones when Granny had gotten hurt, which had been understandable and a perfectly reasonable thing to do. But Jones had managed to do  _ something _ , because Robin is absolutely unbearable now.

 

He doesn’t break Regina’s rules. He is careful not to overstep, though she can still feel his eyes on her at quiet moments, that damned smugness as though he knows something she doesn’t. He persists in believing that she’s secretly interested in him, which infuriates her more than perhaps anything else.

 

Sometimes, she likes to imagine seizing Emma in the middle of the office and kissing her, just to make a point about her preferences. Well. She imagines that for many more reasons than shutting Robin up. She needs to  _ stop _ , because Emma and Neal are cozy these days, at ease with each other and heads together as they glare balefully at Robin.

 

Hating Robin on Regina’s behalf seems to have united them, which makes Regina laugh brokenly when she figures it out. She doesn’t deserve either of them, the brother who loves her or the…the  _ Emma _ who has no set role in Regina’s life but is somehow all she thinks about. Emma speaks, and Regina hurts with wanting, with guilt, with emotions that she can’t seem to tamp down. Emma smiles, and Regina is stricken with affection that leaves her breathless and unable to speak. 

 

Emma is very rapidly becoming almost all she thinks about.

 

_ Almost _ , because she’s captaining a sinking ship right now, and Marian is still gone. Mulan has been brief and unhelpful in her texts.  **_She just needs some time_ ** , she says on the third day.  **_We’ll be back soon_ ** , she promises on the fifth.

 

Five days pass, and there are only three remaining until they’re saddled permanently with their candidate.

 

Regina can feel the vise closing around her when she realizes that, when they’re running out of time and there are no decisions made. They still haven’t spoken to the media. Sabine has flat-out refused to tell Regina’s invented story to the press, and Regina hasn’t had the willpower to do it herself. Fewer articles are being written about it as the days pass, and interest is waning outside of Storybrooke.

 

In Storybrooke, nearly everyone has heard about the picture by now, and everyone has an opinion. She hears disapproving muttering when she goes to the grocery store, and gets sympathetic smiles at Granny’s in the mornings. Few have been bold enough to come over to her to add their opinions, but the mail carrier had passed her the office’s mail this morning and said, “When are you kicking that douchebag to the curb?” 

 

Regina gives her a tight smile. “Thanks for your input,” she says dryly, and she makes a quick exit into the office.

 

Inside, Neal and Emma are already there, sitting in close with Tamara as they whisper about something. They straighten when they see her, looking guilty, and Tamara says, “Any news from Marian?”

 

Regina spreads her hands in surrender. “She’ll be back soon,” she says. “So Mulan says.” 

 

“We’ll talk to her–” Emma begins, and Regina shakes her head.

 

“No one needs to talk to her. Just give her…whatever space she needs.” She swallows, manages a short smile. “What are you planning?” All three look trapped, and she says, “For outreach?” 

 

“Oh.” Emma swallows. “I thought maybe a Back-To-School giveaway? We have the funding. We can give out lunchboxes or erasers or…something with our logo on them.”

 

Regina nods, pleased. “That’s a good idea. Jacinda can get the ball rolling on the design when she gets in.” 

 

Emma looks uncomfortable for a moment. “Why don’t we give it a few days?” she suggests timidly. 

 

Three days until the deadline. Three days until Robin is their permanent candidate, swaggering through the office as though he’s  _ won _ , somehow, in a race that has nothing to do with mayor. Regina gives Emma a look. “No need to waste time,” she says. “Let’s get a move on.”

 

She makes a quick escape to the office, glancing out as her trio of colleagues confer again in hushed tones. They’re talking about her, she’s sure.  _ How to handle Regina. How to make Regina see reason _ . They must have grand plans– everyone always does– but they aren’t the ones who take responsibility for this campaign. They aren’t the ones who have to hold it up if it crumbles in their hands. And Regina is tied to this campaign as she’s never been tied to anything, and she’ll see it through to Election Day even if…

 

Even if… 

 

She buries herself in work, writing a new statement about what had happened to post to Twitter. She’s tried a dozen times already, but each version sounds false, a panicked attempt to cover for Robin.  _ I have made some mistakes, but this is my worst. I let a crush get out of hand _ –

 

She stops, feeling sick. Mother would just  _ love  _ the heterosexuality of that, and she deleted the page and starts again.

 

On her fifth attempt, there’s an uncertain knock at the door, and she sighs and looks up, expecting Emma. It isn’t Emma.

 

It’s Sabine, who looks uncomfortable as Regina nods her in. They aren’t friends as much as acquaintances, and now colleagues. Most of their interactions have been through Jacinda, evenings at their place and working on the campaign together, and Regina says, frowning, “Did Emma update you on the Back-to-School event?” 

 

“No.” Sabine shifts from foot to foot, and Regina’s brow furrows, feeling the awkward tension in the room before Sabine speaks again. “I didn’t come here about that.” She bites her lip, swallowing. “I came here to quit the campaign.” 

 

Regina sits up, feeling as though she’s been suddenly, unexpectedly, hit headlong by a train. “You  _ what _ ?” 

 

Sabine shrugs, gaining some confidence with that admission. “I can’t do this anymore,” she says.

 

“We just lost Ruby.” Regina thinks quickly, balances finances in her mind. “If it’s a problem with the bakery, we can use her salary to cover your losses. Keep you–” 

 

“I can’t work here,” Sabine says again, more forcefully, shrugging off the offer as though it’s nothing at all. “Not with  _ him _ . Not for him. I can’t support this campaign anymore.” Her fingers curl together into loose fists. “I haven’t told Jacinda. She isn’t pulling out, too. And I’ll give you another two weeks to find a replacement, but I just…” She closes her eyes. “I wanted  _ change _ , Regina. I didn’t want this.” 

 

Regina swallows, feeling the world beginning to fall from beneath her feet. “We all talked about this from the start. We said– if we want change, we have to compromise along the way. I  _ know  _ how political campaigns work. It’s incremental, but we have a chance–” 

 

“ _ You _ have a chance,” Sabine says blandly, and Regina stares up at her in betrayal. “You want to start undoing the damage your mom did. That’s great. My damage? It’s a whole lot deeper than that.” 

 

Regina opens her mouth to respond, and Sabine holds up a finger. “My dad was a decorated war vet. He came home with severe PTSD and he was gone a year later. I was five.” Regina opens her mouth again, then shuts it. “And yeah, my mom and I had to move from a decent apartment on the poor end of town to the worst street in town. This was before the superstore shut down or your mother really took control of the city. And you know what? It still sucked. The cops were still running wild there. Cora Mills didn’t wake up one day and invent racism.” 

 

“I’m not– I  _ know _ that,” Regina says, frustrated. “You know I know that–” 

 

Sabine shakes her head. “I know you, walking down my old street at night with your designer clothes and your straightened hair and the most WASPy accessories your mother could shove at you, would get cops stopping to offer to escort you where you need to go. I got  _ slapped around, _ Regina. Drew? He got  _ shot _ .” She chews on her lip, considering her words before more burst from her. “It’s easy to look at all of us and think we’re on the same level, that we’re some…who’s who of people of color in Storybrooke, but I’m a black gay woman living in a town that hates me, and I don’t want to hand this town over to another entitled white man who can do something vile and get away with it. I’m done with politics. And I can’t do this the political way.” 

 

She takes a deep breath, and she looks at Regina in agony. “Look. I really did– I wanted to believe in change, okay? But I don’t think that change happens when the candidate can try to  _ assault _ you and still walks around like he runs the place. I don’t think that’s a campaign I can be a part of. It just doesn’t…it isn’t  _ change _ . Maybe we beat your mother. Maybe we don’t. Either way, nothing is different. Not with Robin Locksley or Killian Jones as mayor.” She blinks back tears, and Regina watches her, stricken as every word rings true. “I can’t do this anymore, Regina. I’m sorry. I have to go.” 

 

She turns around abruptly, and then she hesitates. “I don’t know if I believed in change at all,” she says. “Maybe I just believed in you.” 

 

_ Believed _ . The past tense is as much of a blow as anything else that Sabine has said, and Regina stares at the half-written apology on her word processor and deletes it with a click.

 

* * *

 

Neal and Tamara had been roommates in college, have been partners-in-crime for just as long, and Emma’s always been a little intimidated by their dynamic. Tamara is cool in an effortless kind of way, familiar with Neal and Regina and always sure of what to do, and Emma has never quite managed to befriend her as she has the others to varying degrees.

 

Today, though, they’re all in perfect sync. “He has to go,” Tamara says in a low voice, glancing at the candidate office as the door opens and shuts. Sabine emerges from it, a false smile stretched across her face. Her eyes are troubled, and Emma looks worriedly at her before she turns back to Tamara. “We have three days.” 

 

“Marian’s still MIA,” Emma says, holding up her phone with a sigh. She’s tried contacting Marian a dozen times, but there has been no response. Mulan had texted her once, a wry  **_let her breathe. you’re stressing her out_ ** that hadn’t appeased Emma at all.

 

Because–  _ yeah _ , Marian must be going through the roughest time of her life right now, but her husband had also  _ attacked  _ Regina, and Regina is so deep in misery about Marian’s reaction when she’s blameless. 

 

Not that Emma doesn’t understand Marian, too, and why she’d need some time away. It’s just a bad, bad situation, and the only person who doesn’t seem to be suffering because of it is the perpetrator. He’s sitting with his feet up on Emma’s desk right now, scrolling through Youtube. Emma, with all her heart and soul, utterly despises him.

 

“We need another way, then,” Tamara says grimly. “There are…” She exchanges a glance with Neal. “We have other–” 

 

“Tamara,” Neal says, and Tamara falls silent. Both of them eye Emma warily, and she stares right back at them, bewildered. Neal clears his throat. “We need to make him  _ want  _ to leave,” Neal points out. “He’s going to stay for as long as Regina wants him here. And she isn’t backing down on this.” 

 

“I want his slimy little fingers away from our girl,” Tamara says fiercely, and Emma looks at her with renewed appreciation. “I want it  _ now _ . We just need to make it clear to him that he’s…”

 

Her voice trails off, and Emma says, “That he’s replaceable.” 

 

“ _ Yes _ .” Tamara looks at her approvingly. “I like you,” she says. “Even if you are going to break my boy’s heart eventually.” She ruffles Neal’s hair. Emma looks at her, wide-eyed, panic rising in her throat.

 

Neal just laughs. “Tamara believes all my relationships are doomed to failure. Ignore her.” 

 

“And yet, I’ve never been wrong before,” Tamara hums smugly. She winks at Emma, and Emma flushes a deep red that has nothing to do with…certain indiscretions  _ or  _ an attractive woman winking at her. “You’re cute, though. Regina probably won’t even have the heart to ruin you.” 

 

“Thanks,” Emma says dryly, still very red. “Can we get back to the candidate issue?” 

 

“Right.” Tamara says, and they put their heads together again, debating in whispered tones their various ideas. There is something about how Neal and Tamara argue, backing down easily whenever someone suggests a faulty plan. It’s almost as though they have a backup plan they aren’t telling Emma about, and Emma is back to being the odd one out.

 

Still, she has ideas, and they’re listening. They make a few phone calls, still keeping an eye on the closed office door, and Emma winces more than once. All of this feels like going behind Regina’s back, and she’s going to be  _ pissed  _ when she finds out what they’re up to. 

 

_ Desperate times. Desperate measures _ . Regina won’t make a decision on this because she can’t see any alternatives. Emma is sure that even no alternatives is better than  _ this _ , even if Regina can’t see it. 

 

When they’re ready, Neal says, “Locksley?” Robin perks up. No one’s spoken to him in hours, beyond Emma rudely reclaiming her computer once or twice. “I thought we could have a talk,” Neal says. “Man to man.” 

 

“And yet you have your little clique of women with you,” Robin says, quirking an eyebrow. “Though I see that you’re missing one today.” He looks smug, still supremely confident in Regina’s approval.

 

Emma says, already fed up, “You’re going to step down as candidate.” 

 

Robin’s brow furrows. “I will not,” he says. “Regina believes I’m your best shot at taking back Storybrooke. And she’s right.” 

 

“She won’t be right when we’re done with you,” Tamara says, holding up her phone. “I have Sidney Glass on the line. He  _ really  _ doesn’t like you. And he’s ready to…how do I say this?” She contemplates for a moment, then says silkily, “Ruin your pathetic life even more than you already have on your own.” 

 

Neal takes over. “I didn’t know that you met Marian through Zelena Mills,” he says, shrugging in that disarming, boyish way that Emma’s beginning to suspect that he does intentionally. “Though I suppose the police doesn’t know, either. You stole a pretty expensive pendant,” he says, tsking. “Zelena was willing to drop charges because her roommate was  _ so  _ sweet on you. Funny thing about Zelena? She might not get along with Regina, but she will absolutely murder anyone who screws with her or Marian.” 

 

Robin, who had gone pale somewhere in the middle of Neal’s threat, is bolstered again by the mention of Regina. “Regina would never accept that. She needs me. You all need me. Without me, who do you have to stop Cora Mills?” 

 

“Mary Margaret Blanchard,” Regina says from the office doorway. She isn’t smiling, and she doesn’t look quite as worn down as she’s been all week. “Who has just informed me that she’d love to replace you, if there is a need for her. I haven’t decided yet if there is. But I do know that there is no need for you.” 

 

Robin looks at her in hurt, like a kicked puppy. “I’m your candidate,” he says. “You want  _ me _ .” 

 

“If you refuse to step down,” Regina says, her voice unyielding, “This team will run Mary Margaret Blanchard as an independent opposite you. We’ll split the vote, of course, and lose the election.” She says it carelessly, and Emma feels an odd leaping of joy in her heart at Regina, back in control. “But I won’t be responsible for putting someone like  _ you _ in office.” Her voice softens, though it’s still very cool. “I believe that you’re a decent man who’s made some terrible mistakes,” she says. “And I know you’ll make the right decision here.” 

 

She stares at him, waits, confident and strong. Tamara murmurs, “Go get him, girl.” Neal beams with pride. Jacinda watches with marked satisfaction. Only Sabine isn’t watching, eyes on her computer as she works on the Back-to-School event announcement as though it’s business as usual. 

 

Emma watches Regina, her heart surging with deep relief, with affection and awe. God, Regina is  _ everything  _ when she’s like this, fierce and uncompromising, so clearly meant for something beyond this room and this town and this campaign. Emma can’t explain exactly how much Regina means to her in moments like these, but it’s…she’s…

 

She smiles and smiles and smiles, and Regina says, “Well?” 

 

Robin looks humbled at last, chastised and ashamed as he folds in an instant. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For everything. Of course I’ll…I’ll step down.” 

 

“Good,” Regina says, and her voice hardens to steel. “Now get the hell out of my campaign office.”

 

She watches him, her eyes never leaving him until Robin has signed the necessary forms and exited the room sheepishly. Without Regina’s support, he’s deflated, the smirks and the smugness gone and a sort of horrified dismay suffusing his features. It doesn’t soften Regina, and the rest of the team watches him balefully– except Sabine, who is still absorbed in her flier. When he’s gone, Tamara says dubiously, “Mary Margaret Blanchard?” 

 

Regina shakes her head. “I was bullshitting,” she admits, and Emma lets out a delighted laugh. “But…” She shrugs. “I don’t know. We do need to find a candidate. Someone we can all agree on,” she says, casting a look around the room. “Someone we trust to represent Storybrooke.”

 

She leans back against the office door, waiting until they’re all watching her. “I know this isn’t ideal. But Robin didn’t win that primary. We did. And we can do it again in the general election. Okay?” 

 

It isn’t a long, inspirational speech. It’s a few plain words from their very tired deputy chief of staff. And yet, Neal is straightening, Tamara is shifting with renewed energy, and Jacinda looks very satisfied. Sabine looks up at last. “Okay,” she says, and she grins fiercely, a smile Regina dips her head and returns. “Let’s do this.” 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter that is going to tip us over 100k!! This fic is going to be 200k by the end, and I'm horrified and terrified. ALSO it is going to be more than 25 chapters. Possibly......27? I will keep y'all posted. Also!! Much thanks to Tuna for this chapter's culinary discussions and all her general readiness for silly consultations!!
> 
> And thank you for all your feedback!! I'm sorry I haven't been able to thank you each individually lately– the rare moments I have any computer time at all are spent writing frantically, lol. I am so, so grateful for every single comment and kudos though!! You make my day every week and I hope the updates are repayment enough for all the joy y'all bring me. (also this update in particular. see the tag for this fic.) <3

**JULY 14**

_ 114 Days Until the General Election _

 

“After much examination and discussion, it’s become clear that Robin Locksley is not a candidate that represents our campaign’s values,” Tamara says onscreen. Regina watches her image from the computer in the candidate’s office, brow furrowed with concentration. Tamara looks confident as she speaks, her eyes grave but her voice unyielding. “The public servant who answers to Storybrooke must be beyond reproach. We are committed to finding someone as devoted to bettering this town as Locksley had been.”

 

Hans tilts his head. “Then the image portraying Locksley–” 

 

“That image should never have been circulated,” Tamara says, steely-eyed. “It was an invasion of privacy. I’m sure you don’t intend to exacerbate that.” 

 

Offscreen, beside her, Tamara snorts. “He’s such a  _ dick _ ,” she says. “I think we kept that statement out of the danger zone, though.” 

 

“Thank you,” Regina murmurs. “Now, if we could deal with  _ that _ –” She jabs a finger toward the main campaign headquarters. Outside the big open glass windows at the side of the building, there’s a gaggle of reporters stationed, waiting for anyone to enter or leave. They’ve gotten bolder in the day since Robin had stepped down, and they seem to have multiplied. It seems almost like every reporter in Maine is parked outside of their campaign headquarters, poised like cats ready to pounce. Regina had found it unbearable enough that she’s moved into the office for the day, out of sight of the reporters.

 

“They’ll get bored and leave eventually. Let’s try to keep them until we get our candidate,” Tamara says, tugging up her legs to her chair. “If Emma could stop glancing over at them, we might even keep them wondering.” 

 

Regina rolls her eyes, a little fondly. “She’s trying,” she says, as Tamara’s statement begins onscreen again. “She’s trying to organize an event right now without a candidate. It must be frustrating.” Neal is sitting beside Emma, feet up on the desk while she makes phone calls and wrinkles her nose at his feet, and Regina watches them both with her heart in her throat.

 

It’s too stressful a time to obsess over  _ that _ , she’d decided already, but her heart doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. Emma and Neal are comfortable again these days, which is what Regina had wanted for them. This is how things should be.

 

Tamara pats her shoulder. “Ease up,” she says. “Your pining can be seen from space.” 

 

Regina jolts in alarm. “What?” she demands, but she’s distracted by the sudden shift onscreen, the swap from Tamara’s interview to the street outside the campaign headquarters.

 

“We’re here outside the former Locksley campaign with an arrival who’s been hiding away for too long!” Anna Arendelle announces, and Regina’s head jerks up. “Marian Locksley, Robin Locksley’s wife, has been missing in action for over a week now. Marian, are you standing behind your husband since his indiscretion?” 

 

Regina can feel dread pooling in her stomach, fear that envelops her at once. Tamara squeezes her shoulder, and Regina pulls away, sitting very stiffly as she leans in to stare at the screen. 

 

Marian looks deeply uncomfortable with the attention. “I think that that’s a private matter, don’t you?” she says, and Regina’s heart clenches with renewed fear. “I think all of this is a private matter.” She shakes her head. “And I would hardly call what happened an  _ indiscretion _ .”

 

Anna looks bewildered at that shift. “And why is that?” 

 

Marian gives her a hard look. “Well, an indiscretion implies fault on both sides. This was workplace harassment at the very least,” she says, and Regina exhales, shutting off the stream before she stands up. A weight has been lifted off her chest, and she feels as though she can breathe again. She can see Marian and Mulan at the door, Neal moving to open it for them, and she pushes the door to the office open.

 

Marian walks in and her face softens in an instant. She’s moving down the aisle to Regina in a rush, and she reaches for her and pulls her into an embrace. “Regina,” she breathes, and Regina shuts her eyes, leans in close. “I am so, so sorry.”

 

The reporters are filming greedily from the other side of the window, and Jacinda glowers at them and pulls down the shades around the office at last. “I hope they got a good shot,” Tamara says, practical as always. Regina holds Marian tighter, trembling with sorrow, and Marian kisses her temple. 

 

She urges Regina back into the office, shutting the door behind them. “I shouldn’t have left,” Marian says at once. “It wasn’t fair of me. I saw that picture and I panicked. But I left you to deal with…with the mess he made.” 

 

She pulls back, cupping Regina’s face by the chin and demanding in a quiet voice wrought from steel, “Has he done this before?” 

 

Regina shakes her head. “No. And I– I made sure he hadn’t done it to anyone else. And that he wouldn’t do it again. He thought…he thought I’d led him on.” She feels obligated to say it, to bring up whatever Robin might say in his defense. She still wonders, sometimes, when there is no one around to dismiss it, if he might have been right about it somehow.

 

Marian’s face twists. “Of course he did,” she says, sounding caustic about it. The harshness fades away a moment later. “Mulan said…I hadn’t even realized. That he’d had a way of making you uncomfortable. That he was always touching you. Regina, why didn’t you  _ say _ ?” 

 

She doesn’t know how to answer that, how to explain  _ optics  _ and  _ it didn’t seem like a big deal  _ and  _ I didn’t want to hurt you _ when it’s all of those and so much more. Instead, she can feel the weight of it crushing down on her again, and she tightens every muscle in her face in an attempt not to sob. 

 

Marian waits, studying her face as though trying to understand it, and she says, “I’m so sorry that I left you on your own.” 

 

“I’m sorry about your husband,” Regina manages, and Marian shakes her head and looks as though she might be the one to cry instead. “You…you deserve better.” 

 

Marian nods. “So does Storybrooke,” she murmurs, and Regina remembers the other reason why she’s been waiting desperately for Marian to return. “I know it took you some time to get to that realization, but I’m glad that you did. This campaign needs someone worthy of it.” 

 

“It needs you,” Regina blurts out, and Marian’s eyes widen. “I’ve been thinking–” She swallows, gathers her professionalism around herself like a cloak. “There was a time when we thought that electability was a factor. But I’m done with that. I think…Storybrooke needs a mayor who understands them, and who believes in what we do. Storybrooke needs  _ you _ . And our campaign will make the people accept that.” 

 

Marian is the best candidate they could have, someone who understands policy and who’s grown up in this town. Marian cares as much about Storybrooke as Regina does, and she can command a crowd, can be a leader, can win over even the most dubious of voters. She’s the anti-Jones, and they need her.

 

But she’s already shaking her head. “Regina, no. It’s not– I want what’s best for Storybrooke,” she says, her eyes probing. “I think a lot of people are counting on this team to deliver that. And I still want to be a part of that.” 

 

“Then be who they want,” Regina pleads. “We need  _ someone _ , and we need someone who’s going to be good enough for the public to look past this scandal. We need someone like you.” 

 

“Someone like me,” Marian agrees. “But not me. I’m not a politician. I hated getting dressed up and  _ pretending _ for our events. I can’t imagine doing it daily for years. And…I’m about to be busy with what might be a bitter divorce,” she says with a deep exhale, and Regina’s heart clenches. “I’ll help where I can, but not with that. There are better candidates out there. Don’t you think?” She looks at Regina again, her eyes still sharp with something unspoken.

 

“No,” Regina says dully. “I don’t.” 

 

* * *

 

Decisions have to be made. Emma is only relieved that decisions  _ can  _ be made, that it’s past July 14 and Robin Locksley is no longer a part of their team. They have two weeks to find someone new, someone fitting for their campaign. Emma has some ideas, but she stays quiet as they ride out the storm, as they talk down the media and assure them that they’ll have a candidate to show after the fact.

 

Ruby, busy at Granny’s Diner, is a surprising help even now, because the reporters who still lurk in town are staying at the bed & breakfast and are very chatty. “They think we won’t find anyone,” she admits late one night.

 

It’s a week into their search, and they’re having an emergency pow-wow at Neal’s apartment. There is still too much attention on their campaign, on how they’re supposedly floundering without a candidate. They’re reduced to this: secret meetings after the end of the day where no one can watch their sad state. “We’ll find someone,” Emma says firmly.

 

“It has to be  _ right _ ,” Regina says, and Emma sees Neal and Tamara exchange a glance, barely perceptible. Sabine sighs, and Emma bites her lip. “We aren’t choosing just anyone. I’m not going to put a candidate into office just because they seem agreeable.” 

 

“Yeah,” Neal says, and he looks vaguely uncomfortable as well. “So who are we looking at tonight?” He nudges his laptop over to Sabine, who has a dozen profiles outlined for various who’s who of Storybrooke.

 

They begin with the elementary school principal, but soon discover that she’d written an op-ed in the  _ Daily Mirror _ supporting Killian Jones. Next comes one of the daughters of the country club owner. Some artful Googling uncovers an Instagram account where she models in the nude, and she’s removed from the running. 

 

By the time they begin running through every member of the fire department, Regina is standing, restless at their lack of progress. “I’m going to make dinner,” she says. 

 

“In Neal’s apartment?” Jacinda says dubiously. “What are you going to use, garlic salt?” 

 

Regina snorts. “I’ll find something,” she says, wandering to the kitchen. Emma, equally restless, follows her there. Regina moves through the kitchen with the confidence of someone who has actually cooked in said kitchen, browsing through cabinets and digging in the freezer to find the food that Neal and Emma rarely touch. 

 

She bends over to dig through one of the lower pantry cabinets, a pert, perfectly-formed ass poking out in front of Emma. Emma gulps, very quietly, her fingers itching to touch it, to grasp Regina like she had on primary night. Everything had been  _ so  _ much simpler before she’d realized exactly how attracted she is to Regina. Now, she’ll be standing casually in a room, going about her business, and Regina will shift and the attraction will hit her like a train

 

“Aha!” Regina says triumphantly, producing a box that Emma’s never seen Neal use. “I knew I left this here.” She plucks a packet of some kind of seasoning out of it and then moves back to the counter, passing an onion and a knife to Emma. “Chop,” she orders. 

 

Emma chops obligingly as Regina maneuvers around her, reaching past her for silverware and a can of tomatoes in the cabinet above her. “I didn’t take you for a gourmet chef,” she says, remembering the cook at Cora’s house. “Your mother didn’t teach you, did she?” 

 

Regina laughs. “No. No, Cora Mills doesn’t spend her free time in the kitchen. I learned with my father.” She tosses garlic into a saucepan, wrinkles her nose at something she finds in the fridge, stirs the garlic in oil until she can spill Emma’s onions into it, too. “Daddy taught me all the flavors of home. Bay leaf, cumin, the sizzling of the oil,” she murmurs, lost somewhere else. “The steam over the burner. We traveled so much, but the food always smelled like home.”

 

Emma watches her, the soft eyes as her hands still expertly stir the onions as if by rote, the hint of a smile on her face. Sometimes– in brief moments, moments that make her seize her necklace and hold on for dear life, lest she be swept away– sometimes, there are moments like this, when Emma can taste a fantasy of a future, the kind she won’t dare even dream about.  _ This _ , Regina moving around a kitchen in a modest house somewhere, Emma sitting on the counter and nudging her with one foot while she cooks. A little boy or girl tangling between Regina’s legs, beaming up at Emma with a gap-toothed smile. A quiet house that belongs to them, and the smells of home.

 

She clutches her necklace, horrified at her own thoughts, and remembers instead that she has a boyfriend just in the next room. If she’s in Regina’s house in a decade, it’ll be as a friend, a guest, and somehow, she and Neal have lasted for that long. 

 

She takes a breath, expels traitorous thoughts from her heart, and says, “I’m glad you have him. Your dad, I mean. It sounds like he’s pretty great.” 

 

Regina looks at her, almost startled at the sentiment, but then her eyes grow even warmer and she leans against the stove, smiling at Emma. “You’d like him,” she says. “He’d like you. He liked you before I did,” she says, almost sourly. “I would tell him how much I  _ loathed  _ you and he kept calling you  _ that nice girl I keep– _ ” She stops, very suddenly, as though she’s realized at once how much she’s revealed.

 

“You keep talking about?” Emma finishes, her eyes dancing and her heart leaping in her chest. “And wait, does that mean you  _ like _ me now?” 

 

Regina’s eyes narrow. “ _ No _ ,” she says, throwing a spatula at Emma. Emma catches it, spinning it between her fingers, feeling a little glee stirring at her.

 

“You like me!” she accuses, smugly victorious. “You really like me!” 

 

“I  _ hate  _ you,” Regina says, but it lacks any venom. She scoffs and turns away in a huff, stirring her onions and adding the tomato sauce and her spice packet.

 

Emma begins to cut up the chicken that Regina had found in the freezer into chunks. “No, you don’t,” she says, her voice singsong. “You talk about me to your  _ dad _ . You haven’t insulted me like you meant it in  _ weeks _ . You  _ like  _ me.” She shrugs, feeling bolder and invigorated by this new revelation. “I bet I charmed you with all my competence. Or maybe it was my winning smile,” she says musingly. “Or my  _ delightful _ personality–” 

 

Regina dips a spoon into the tomato sauce and flings some at Emma, very calmly. It splatters across her face. Emma gasps in horror, darting forward to dip her fingers into the can of sauce. “Don’t you  _ dare _ ,” Regina says, taking a step back.

 

Emma steps forward again until Regina is pinned against the counter, Emma up close to her, their bodies nearly pressed together. “Say you like me,” she says threateningly, and she feels…she feels younger than she has in a long time, lighter and freer and at peace in this stolen moment within chaos. Regina’s eyes are dilated, her chest rising and falling in very pleasing ways, and Emma’s eyes fall to her lips, her heart beating rapidly.

 

She remembers suddenly, in a flash of guilt, the last time someone had pinned Regina against the wall like this. She shouldn’t have– She takes a step back, and Regina’s hand lands on her waist, stopping her from retreating. “Like hell,” Regina bites out, her eyes glittering with amusement, and Emma relaxes.

 

“Well,” Emma drawls, and she leans closer in, Neal forgotten and a dozen reasons not to now falling to the wayside. “If it’s any consolation,” she breathes. “I like you a little bit, too.” 

 

Regina’s eyes flash. “A  _ little _ ?” she says, affronted, and then she falls silent, her gaze dropping to Emma’s lips as Emma continues her slow, slow approach. Emma is breathless with want, with the electricity buzzing between them and with the way Regina’s eyes burn so hot, and she leans forward, a glitter of diamond catching her eye–

 

It’s her necklace, the snowflake’s light reflecting off the lights over the stove. Emma’s heart sinks, and she raises her sauce-encrusted fingers and swipes them across Regina’s face, too. “A little,” she confirms, watching as Regina returns to earth, too. There’s resignation in her eyes, followed by guilt, and Emma swallows and gives her a wan smile in return. “Maybe, like, this much.” She holds her thumb and pointer finger about two inches apart. 

 

Regina flings another spoonful of tomato sauce at her. It hits Emma’s jacket, staining the red just a little redder. “Fine. I still don’t like you at all,” Regina says, mock-huffy. “And now I need a shower.” 

 

“I need a new jacket,” Emma says, peeling it off. She’s only in a tank now, bits of it splattered in red, too, and she flushes as Regina’s gaze heightens in intensity. “I will  _ allow  _ you the use of my shower if you clean my jacket at one of your fancy-pants rich stores–” 

 

“A dry cleaner?” Regina says dubiously. “And is it really your shower?” Somehow, she can look absolutely regal while covered in tomato sauce, and Emma admires her for a moment before she touches her necklace and forces herself back to the present. “Make Neal do it.” 

 

Emma makes a face. “As if I can make Neal do anything. You make Neal do it.” They’re both sobered by the mentions of Neal, the man who still stands between them. Regina tears her eyes away from where she’s been looking appreciatively at Emma’s arms, and Emma stops swooning, just a little, over the way Regina’s licking her lips clean.

 

They’re just in time. “Did I hear my name?” Neal asks, popping up in the doorway of the kitchen. He looks very amused. “What happened to you two?” 

 

Emma looks at Regina. Regina says, “You need to get Emma’s jacket dry cleaned.” 

 

Neal shrugs easily. “Yeah, okay. How’s dinner coming along? We could use your input.” 

 

Regina sighs irritably. “For the candidates we have lined up? There isn’t very much to say, is there?” She sighs again, falling back to the somber defeat of the evening. “Give us a few more minutes. We’ll be right there.” Emma bobs her head with Regina, licking some sauce from her lips and attempting to look very serious.

 

Neal leans against the doorway, a slow grin spreading across his face as he takes them in again. “We can always count on my girls,” he says, the fondness entrenched in his voice. Emma feels a quiver of guilt at that, at  _ my girls  _ from the one person who still can’t see what’s happening, and she looks at Regina instead of smiling back.

 

Regina looks stricken, so sad that Emma wants desperately to hold her, to whisper to her that they’re going to get through this and figure out how to– how to make sure no one gets hurt, Neal and Emma and Regina alike.

 

Instead, she clutches her necklace and forces a tight, thin smile onto her face.

 

* * *

 

Regina’s chicken is  _ good _ , though it nearly burns off Emma’s taste buds. “Wow,” she says, shoveling bread into her mouth. “Do you always– is this how you always cook? It’s so–” 

 

“Delicious,” Sabine says, leaning back against the couch. “Tastes like the Creole restaurant I wanted to open up here.” She looks wistful for a moment, and Emma leans over, curious.

 

“Why did you go with the bakery?” 

 

Sabine shrugs. “It was a little too out there for Storybrooke. I would have had a dozen Emmas staggering out of it every night.” She nudges Emma playfully. “I’d lose  _ so  _ much money on bread.” 

 

“You wouldn’t have any Emmas staggering out of it,” Emma says, swallowing the last of the bread. There’s still a piece of chicken on her plate, and it looks so good that she pops it into her mouth without realizing. “Emmas can’t afford your cooking. Augh. Water–” Neal passes her some water, which helps only incrementally. “Emmas spend half their paychecks just on your beignets.” 

 

“It’s the Neals of Storybrooke who would blow your business venture way open,” Neal says, nudging Sabine with his foot. “We should talk about this after the campaign, maybe.” 

 

Sabine looks startled. “Yeah, maybe,” she says, twisting around to peer up at him.

 

“Let’s make sure that that isn’t next week,” Regina says from the other side of the couch. She still has a little tomato sauce flattened into her hair, a shock of red that dips onto her forehead, and she keeps reaching up to pat at it with a napkin. “We need a candidate.” 

 

“We’ve knocked out every possibility already,” Mulan points out. “There’s a reason why you settled on…who you did.” She had been brought onto the campaign by the Locksleys, Emma remembers suddenly, the last entry before Emma herself. “What are we looking for, Regina?” 

 

Regina shakes her head. “I don’t know. A candidate who doesn’t make us compromise our beliefs. Someone who can care about our priorities when it comes to– tax codes, the superstore, police action–” She rubs at her hair, lost in thought. “Our major platforms. A strong candidate. Someone with a name in this town? A good speaker who has some level of natural charisma.” 

 

“And where do you think that person might be?” Tamara says mildly. They’re all watching Regina, silent and still, but for eyes flickering to each other as they wait.

 

Regina throws up her hands. “Does that person even exist? In  _ Storybrooke _ ? We said we wouldn’t compromise on our wants, but the perfect candidate isn’t out there, is he?” 

 

“Or she,” Tamara prompts, and Regina looks blankly at her.

 

She exhales a deep sigh, and Emma tenses. This is  _ it _ . “Fine,” Regina says, “I’ll do it.” 

 

Tamara leans forward, her eyes brightening. “You will?” 

 

“I’ll… _ fine _ ,” Regina says again, looking very irritated. “I’ll go talk to Mary Margaret Blanchard about taking her on as our candidate.” The room seems to sigh with them, every stiff shoulder and acute stare fading into disappointment. “I don’t like it, either,” Regina says, frowning at them. “But what other choice do we have?”

 

No one has an answer for her. Regina stands up, rubbing at her hair one last time. “I’m going to take a shower,” she says. “Take the day off tomorrow, okay? You’ve all been working much too hard. I’ll talk to Mary Margaret and we can regroup after that.” She sighs, giving them a strained smile. “I’m sorry about all of this. I wish it hadn’t gone this way.” She turns back once more before she disappears into the bedroom.

 

“What other choice do we have,” Sabine echoes bitterly. “How is she not  _ seeing  _ this?” 

 

“It isn’t on her radar,” Neal says, leaning back on the couch. “And if we bring it up, she’ll never take it seriously. It’ll sound like a desperate last-ditch effort instead of the best idea this campaign has ever had.” 

 

Emma bobs her head. “So we talk to Mary Margaret first,” she says, sounding out the idea slowly. “We see where she’s at. And maybe then she’ll get it.”

 

“And then we  _ win _ ,” Tamara says, and she smiles, slow and confident. “We can win the campaign with the right candidate. And we will.” 

 

The landscape of Storybrooke feels like it’s shifting already, like there is a new, brighter future ahead of them that Emma can taste. The others begin to slip out, one by one as they yawn and excuse themselves, and Emma wonders about it, about Storybrooke with the mayor it deserves, about setting down roots here and actually  _ staying  _ to see how Storybrooke grows. 

 

She glows with the thought of it, and Neal gives her a funny look when he returns from locking the door. “You okay?” 

 

“Yeah,” Emma says, still lost in thought. Storybrooke as Regina and the campaign envisions it is a quiet town at peace with itself as it hasn’t been in decades. It sounds idyllic, simple and calm, a town to be proud of. “I guess I’m just…realizing I might still be around next year. Or even later.” She smiles at Neal, ignores the pit in her stomach that comes with the sound of the shower still running in the bedroom.

 

Neal takes her hands, holding them in his. “I hope so,” he says, gazing at her with that dopey look of total affection that makes her very fond of him. 

 

She grins, feeling a weight slipping off her shoulders. “I’ll show you how to build Ingrid’s snowman,” she promises. “This winter. You and me.” It almost sounds like a  _ future  _ for a moment, like something that might be okay.

 

Neal’s brow crinkles. “Ingrid?” he says curiously.

 

“My foster mother,” Emma prompts him. “The one who almost adopted me?” Neal is still looking at her, eyes blank. Emma is at a loss. “The one I used to– the reason you got the snowflake necklace, right?” She holds the necklace to her. It had meant so much to her when Neal had given it to her, had been a symbol of someone who’d  _ cared _ , and she’s suddenly adrift, lost in confusion. “Neal, if you didn’t remember, then why the snowflake? Why–?” 

 

“Em,” Neal says, and he looks pained. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was…” He sighs. “I didn’t get you that necklace. It was actually…really weird, honestly.” 

 

Emma stares, uncomprehending, her fingers pressing against the spokes of the snowflake. “I don’t understand,” she says finally, and she can already feel herself on the precipice of a revelation she hasn’t been prepared for, an explanation that will rock her. “You didn’t–” 

 

“She told me to give it to you,” Neal says in helpless explanation. “She said she’d made an impulse buy and that it was time I tried making up for the way I acted after the news about Portland got out, and it was…” He shakes his head. “She used  _ for the good of the campaign _ a lot. I didn’t think to question her. I never do,” he says ruefully.  

 

Emma stares at him, the world tilting on its axis, and she feels suddenly faint. Neal misinterprets her distress. “I’ve felt kind of shitty about it,” he says. “I mean, I  _ feel _ all the things that we figured out I’d say together. And I would have bought you the necklace in a heartbeat if I’d known what it would mean to you. But it’s been…I don’t know,” he says to himself, shaking his head. “Maybe I’ll get you something else that’s  _ actually _ from me. Maybe I’ll–” 

 

“Regina,” Emma says finally, hoarsely. “Regina bought me this necklace?” 

 

Neal shrugs. “I guess? I don’t know why she bought it. She just… _ had  _ it. It must have been a coincidence. I don’t think she knew about your foster mother,” he says, grinning at her.

 

But she had. Emma had told her about Ingrid when they’d been trapped in the elevator, when they’d both shared more than they ever had and they’d nearly kissed. Regina must have remembered. Regina had bought her the necklace– Regina had found all the right words for Neal to win Emma over, and Emma is–

 

_ Furious _ .  _ Baffled _ .  _ Heartbroken _ . Regina had gifted her with something precious, and had been too  _ coward _ to stand behind it. No, too– too–

 

The necklace has been her reminder of Neal for all this time, her way of reclaiming her bearings each time that Regina had thrown her for a loop, but it’s been an ersatz anchor. It’s been pulling her closer to Regina, and she’d never even suspected. She takes in a shuddering breath, overwhelmed, and even Neal seems to grasp that she’s been affected by this.

 

“I know you had a fight with her that day,” he reminds Emma gently, and that only makes it worse, makes this mysterious gift even more unbelievable. “Maybe she was just trying to make up for it, in her own way. She’s a good friend.” 

 

Emma blinks back frustrated, helpless tears. “We’re not friends,” she says in a strained voice, and it finally makes sense, now, after weeks of being hurt by it when Regina had said it.  _ No _ , they aren’t friends. They’re never going to be friends, not when they care more than they should, not when every touch feels as though it could last forever, not when every interaction is charged, leaves Emma breathless and wanting. 

 

Not when they  _ want _ , and Regina had found an underhanded way to keep Emma from being with her, to sabotage this thing between them before it had gone any further.

 

She’s angry, she’s hurt, and she’s so, so sad. Neal looks lost at this change in Emma’s demeanor, at the way she slumps on the couch, and he says, “I promise. I’ll get you something special for us.” His phone rings, and he looks at the caller ID for a fraught moment before he says, “I have to get this.” 

 

Emma nods dully. Neal hurries out of the apartment, his voice hushed as he picks up the phone, and Emma curls up on the couch, unclasping the necklace and staring at it in her palm. It glitters in the way that only the most expensive of gifts does– this is  _ the most  _ expensive gift she’s ever gotten, and it doesn’t matter that it had probably been pocket change to Regina. It had been because of Ingrid, because of the elevator, because they’d had a fight earlier that day. 

 

Regina had told her before she’d given her the necklace that the kiss had never happened.  _ Liar _ .  _ Liar.  _ Regina had…put together an elaborate plan to solidify Emma’s relationship as some kind of twisted apology?  _ How dare she _ . 

 

“Neal?” It’s Regina, her voice muffled through the closed bathroom and bedroom doors. “Can you bring me a towel?”

 

Emma rises as though in a trance, the necklace still pressed into her palm, and she walks to the linen closet and retrieves a bath towel. She opens the bedroom door, and sees Regina’s hand poking out of the bathroom.

 

She hands her the towel, their fingers brushing, and Regina says, her voice subdued, “Thank you, Emma.” 

 

_ Anytime _ , Emma tries to say, but the words stick in her throat. She stands in the bedroom, twisting her fingers together through the chain of the necklace as she drafts an angry speech in her head, a furious screed about whatever the  _ fuck _ that necklace had been.

 

But the words fade away when Regina emerges from the bathroom, a towel tucked into itself around her and her hair falling around her in wet, thin curls. “Oh,” Regina says, startled, and Emma can only stare at her, her heart clenching and never releasing. 

 

She’s beautiful, even in a towel, all skin and curves and curly hair like Emma’s never seen it before. She looks uncertain and vulnerable now, like this in front of Emma, and Emma can feel the anger fade away and be replaced with something a little bit like awe. “Oh,” Emma whispers back, and her heart pounds– the necklace had been for  _ her _ , Regina had seen something so beautiful and had thought of her. She hadn’t done it to win Emma over or to get away with snapping at Emma. She’d– she’d done it quietly, for Emma, without expecting to ever receive anything for it. 

 

Her throat closes up, and she breathes in tiny, silent bursts. Regina says, tilting her head, “Is everything all right?” 

 

She looks worried– worried about  _ Emma _ , and Emma feels with every moment that passes as though she’s being swept away, as though this is far too much to comprehend. Regina– Regina is–

 

Emma smiles, and it feels cracked and vulnerable on her face. “Just thinking about how this campaign is going to be okay,” she says.

 

Regina rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “I don’t think Mary Margaret Blanchard is really  _ okay _ ,” she says.

 

Another smile, and Emma might spill every secret they have. “I guess we’ll see,” she says weakly, and she has to leave, to get out of this room, with Regina in a towel with her eyes warm as she looks at Emma. “I’ll…” She gestures helplessly at Regina. “I’ll give you some privacy,” she manages, bolting for the door.

 

“Emma.” She freezes, turns around again. Regina is straightening, something silver and glittering hanging from her fingers. “You dropped your necklace,” she says, holding it out to Emma. 

 

Emma takes a step forward to her, then another. The tension feels thick in the room, enough that Emma is afraid of what she might do, of what might happen next. Regina is naked beneath that towel, and one tug could be enough to…

 

She swallows. “Thank you,” she says, fumbling with it. She’s flushing, she knows she is, and Regina is watching her with bright eyes. Her fingers are too big, too heavy, and she can’t quite clasp the necklace without dropping it again, the chain slipping through her grasp. 

 

Regina catches it for her, staring at the snowflake for a moment before she looks up. “Turn around,” she says, her voice gravelly and deep, and Emma turns, her heart rate quickening. Regina lifts the necklace over her head, laying it down against Emma’s throat, and her knuckles stroke Emma’s collarbone as she brings the chain around to the back of Emma’s neck. 

 

She closes the clasp, and her hands linger, her breath warm against Emma’s neck, sending a shiver of goosebumps down Emma’s spine. They stand in absolute silence, Regina’s knuckles still on Emma’s skin, light filtering into the dim room only from the main room. Emma wants to turn, to pull that towel down and kiss every inch of Regina’s body, to move against her curves and gather her into her arms and lower her onto the bed to taste her–

 

She quivers, hungrier with need than she’s ever been before, with desires that she’s never experienced until this moment. She shakes, desperate, the air within the room charged, just waiting for a single spark before they explode–

 

The door to the apartment slams open, and Regina jumps back, startled, and lets out a soft and fervent, “ _ Fuck _ .” Emma squeezes her eyes shut as Regina scrambles for her clothes, gathering them into her arms and dashing into the bathroom.

 

Emma hurries to the half bath across from the linen closet, nodding briefly to Neal as she rushes past him. She slams the door closed and locks it, her thighs clenched together and her fingers already yanking down the zipper to her jeans.

 

She echoes Regina, her breath ragged, as she slides her hand into her pants. “ _ Fuck _ .” 

 

* * *

 

“The question becomes  _ why _ you’re writing this,” Mary Margaret Blanchard says, walking through her classroom with confidence. The students watch her as she moves, listening carefully, drinking in every word that she gifts them. “Yeah, we all love talking about ourselves and our experiences. But the message of a personal essay can’t just be ‘here I am, this is what I’ve been through.’” She makes a face, and a few students laugh. “It has to be about what you can gift to your audience. What do you want them to gain from your personal essay?” 

 

Regina remembers attending this summer program, remembers being in awe of Mary Margaret and watching her, determined to get it all  _ right _ . There had been something so genuinely likable about her, back then, something that had made Regina want to impress her, and Regina had worshipped her teacher and spent free time lurking in the classroom at lunch with a book, hoping that Miss Blanchard might strike up a conversation with her. 

 

She had trusted Mary Margaret, had wanted desperately to have a relationship with her, and she’d paid for it with all she’d had. Now, standing outside the same classroom, watching eight bright-eyed students gaze at Mary Margaret with the same wanting, she feels ill.

 

She’s going to have to work with Mary Margaret for the rest of the campaign. For Storybrooke– for the good of the campaign– she’s going to have to grovel to a woman for whom there is no groveling. 

 

Mary Margaret spots her lingering by the door, and she smiles at her students. “Why don’t you get started on that question?” she says. “I’ll be right back.” She steps out of the room, the students’ eyes following her as she slips out the door and nods to Regina. “Regina,” she says. “I was so sorry to read about what happened–” 

 

“Nothing happened,” Regina says immediately, cradling her elbow in her palm and feeling already too exposed. “When do you finish teaching?” 

 

Mary Margaret glances back at her class, looking suddenly as though she wants to do nothing less than teaching. “Fifteen minutes. I can– maybe I can have a student–” 

 

“I’ll wait,” Regina says swiftly. She doesn’t want Mary Margaret distracted. 

 

Mary Margaret bobs her head gratefully. “You know where my office is,” she says, gesturing down the hall. 

 

Yes, Regina knows. Regina had spent afternoons in there, had helped Mary Margaret master a computer that she’d been required to use, had talked about her college aspirations and her controlling mother, had admitted to Mary Margaret that she’d thought she might like girls. That office had been a safe place for her, right up until it hadn’t been anymore.

 

It’s unlocked, the school all but silent in mid-July, and Regina slips inside and glances at the big cork board where Mary Margaret had always hung inspirational sayings and cute quotes. It’s littered as always with old yearbook photos of students, and Regina finds her own with a spike of nausea in her belly. 

 

Her hair is professionally blown, her smile wide and careless, eyes gleaming with the energy of someone who had known she’d succeed. Of course she’d gotten into every school where she’d applied, early admissions. Of course she was going to follow Mother’s plan and rise, rise, rise. Yearbook Regina has no doubts, no thoughts of being a college dropout with a failed political campaign, groveling back to the teacher who’d betrayed her in the hopes of salvaging the last of her pride.

 

Regina looks away, unable to face Yearbook Regina anymore. As she turns away, a newspaper clipping catches her eye. It’s from the  _ Daily Mirror _ on the day after the primary, and there’s a picture on it with the caption,  _ LOCKSLEY’S DREAM TEAM CONTINUES TO FORGE AHEAD WITH A PROGRESSIVE CAMPAIGN _ . Regina is front-and-center in it, Tamara on one side of her and Emma on the other, and Regina swallows and stares at it, at Primary Regina, who still believes.

 

“I like to show my students that picture,” Mary Margaret says from behind her. “I point out Neal, Mulan, Ruby, Jacinda, you. All my students.” She’s watching Regina, her eyes gentle and fond, and Regina looks away. “Then I show them your yearbook photo. Such a difference in just eight years. You were so young there.” 

 

“Young and stupid for trusting you,” Regina says bitterly, unable to contain herself. The anger still seeps from a wound that has never healed, a wound she’ll have to bandage up for this campaign.

 

Mary Margaret shakes her head vigorously. “You never made a mistake in trusting me,” she says vehemently. “I only had your best interests in mind. I know we disagree on that–” 

 

“You  _ outed  _ me. To my  _ mother _ .” Regina can’t bear this. She knows where it ends. She’ll go too far, be too harsh, and Mary Margaret will flinch and Regina will be the villain again. Mary Margaret’s world allows her only to be righteous victim, martyr and matriarch at once. Regina will never win, and they aren’t going to have the conversation they have to have.

 

Mary Margaret looks at her, beseeching. “I wanted you to love yourself,” she says. “You came into my office every day and I could see all the ways you despised yourself instead and I couldn’t bear it. I wanted you to embrace the person you’d become, the brave girl who’d figured out whom she might love–” 

 

“Go to _ hell _ ,” Regina spits out, infuriated. “Not everyone can  _ embrace themselves _ . Not everyone has the luxury of being  _ brave _ .” Mary Margaret must be in her fifties by now, must be old enough to have shed that idealism– but she can already see from the stubborn set of her old teacher’s face that she hasn’t. “Haven’t you figured out by now what kind of mother I had? Haven’t you seen what Cora Mills is capable of when things don’t go according to plan? I wasn’t being a coward. I was saving my own skin. And you threw me out into the cold.” 

 

Mary Margaret is still shaking her head, is staring at her without comprehension, and Regina understands with a sudden pang. Mary Margaret  _ won’t _ understand. Mary Margaret had talked about her parents and Storybrooke both with all the fondness of someone who had known very little pain, who had never known what it might be to be unloved. Her students adore her. Her husband is one of the few decent men in Storybrooke whom Regina can tolerate. She’d nearly won a primary campaign without putting in any effort. Mary Margaret doesn’t understand what it might be like to have a mother who doesn’t love right, who doesn’t accept her daughter without conditionals. 

 

Somewhere deep down, Mary Margaret stubbornly believes that she’d jump-started Regina’s journey to acceptance instead.

 

Regina wants to punish her, to lash out, to spit out furious truths until Mary Margaret knows what it means to be unloved. Regina wants to  _ destroy _ Mary Margaret, to fight her, and it takes everything in her power to say, instead, “My mother kicked me out of her house when she found out. I never saw Daniela again. I was nearly forced to marry a man old enough to be my father,” she says blandly. Mary Margaret blinks rapidly at her, as though the revelations are coming too quickly for her to grasp. “My sister  _ hates  _ me and she still got you put on probation for what you did. I want…” 

 

She clears her throat, feeling suddenly vulnerable. “I want you to know that I will  _ never  _ forgive you for what you did to me.” Mary Margaret recoils, and Regina steels herself, reminds herself again and again  _ you are not the villain _ until it sticks. “And now that I’ve made that clear, I want you to run as our MAF candidate for this election,” she finishes calmly.

 

Mary Margaret looks mildly shell-shocked. She stumbles across the room, sitting heavily in her chair. “Well,” she says dryly. “I expected that. I can’t say that I expected the preamble.” 

 

Regina refuses to smile. She stands her ground, staring down at Mary Margaret and waiting. “Will you do it?” 

 

“Will I–?” Mary Margaret shakes her head. “Of course I won’t do it,” she says incredulously. “I couldn’t even win the primary, and you want to put me at the front of the campaign that’s going to change Storybrooke?”

 

Regina arches an eyebrow. “I don’t like it, either,” she says. “But you’re our last shot. We can’t do this without a candidate, and you’re the best one we have.” 

 

Mary Margaret laughs hard, and Regina scowls at her. “This isn’t a  _ joke _ . I’d appreciate it if you stopped treating it like–”

 

“The best you have?” Mary Margaret echoes. “That  _ is  _ a joke.” She’s still staring at Regina, disbelieving and almost amused, and Regina is infuriated by it.

 

“You’re a progressive candidate, comparatively. You want all the things we do, and you’re good with people. They look at you and they see authority. They respect you. You can learn policy and you’re good with words and–” 

 

“Regina,” Mary Margaret says with a long-suffering sigh. “I might be a decent candidate, but I’m no  _ you _ .” 

 

Now Regina is lost and a little angry. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

 

“You know what it means,” Mary Margaret says patiently. “You’ve known all along, even if you won’t let yourself believe it. The person best suited to be mayor of this town is  _ you _ .” She ticks off points on her fingers as Regina stares at her in horror. “You’re the one with the drive and determination to make a difference. You were the most eloquent student I’ve ever had on my debate team. And the whole town is watching you– is trusting  _ you _ . You’re the heart behind the campaign, and the people know it.” She shrugs. “You can’t put someone else there and expect them to accept it. Not when everyone knows who belongs there.” 

 

Regina’s eyes are narrowed, and she can feel anger buzzing through her, electric and dangerous. “Just say no next time. Don’t give me that  _ bullshit _ . I’m not electable. I’m never going to be electable, no matter what magic Mother had planned for me. I’m too harsh, too unlikable– “

 

“You’re charming,” Mary Margaret corrects her. “You win people over when you care enough to try. You could have been student council president if you’d done it your way instead of your mother’s.” 

 

“You’re full of it.” This hurts, somehow, far more than expected.  _ No _ , Regina could never run a successful campaign of her own, and this is a mocking reminder of why. Regina isn’t the kind of woman people elect. Regina isn’t the kind of woman people  _ trust _ , people  _ believe in _ , and Mary Margaret continues to keep her head in the clouds. “I’m too young. I’m not a leader. My team only listens to me because I have Neal–” 

 

“Neal is fun,” Mary Margaret agrees. “But he’s no you. You’re the reason why this election is being covered across the country, don’t you know that? You’re the reason why so many of the people I added to your guest list were willing to come. The pundits weren’t impressed by Robin Locksley. They were impressed by Regina Mills. I have  _ three _ students in that class of  _ eight  _ who want to begin their personal statements for college by talking about what it’s like living in Storybrooke during your campaign.” 

 

“That’s because you probably don’t shut up about it,” Regina says. She feels as though she’s flailing, as though the campaign is tumbling into another abyss. “You’re living in a dream world if you really think that  _ I  _ would have a chance. I’m  _ nobody _ .” 

 

Mary Margaret remains resolute. “You’re somebody very, very important,” she says, and Regina lets out a scream, a furious sound that she doesn’t plan, that ends in tears that she doesn’t want.

 

“I’m  _ not _ ! And this is absurd! Your whole terrible view of me is absurd! The very concept of me in Town Hall is absurd! All of this is absurd!” Regina bites out, and she’s crying furious tears, broken by– by the idea of her having a  _ chance _ , of students writing personal statements about her, of being anyone who can make a difference on her own–

 

She’s a shadow behind a candidate, someone who would never succeed in the limelight. And Mary Margaret had been their last chance, their final attempt to drive their sputtering campaign, and now she’s gone as well. She’s sobbing, and she doesn’t know if it’s for the campaign or for the  _ stupid, stupid  _ idea that she could ever be elected–

 

“I tend to agree,” says a cool voice from the doorway, and Regina feels her mother come close, feels a hand on her back in ownership and domination, feels her dreams slip away for good as Cora Mills speaks. “You have been a difficult daughter to find lately, darling.”

 

* * *

 

Emma is pacing, glancing out the window of campaign headquarters over and over again. “She’d come back here,” she says. “I know she would. She practically lives here.” 

 

“She did give us all the day off,” Jacinda points out from her cubicle. She’s been holding the line since Sabine had gone out on errand, making quiet edits to various paraphernalia. “Maybe she wanted one, too.” 

 

Emma shakes her head. “Something’s wrong,” she says worriedly. “She went to the school, didn’t she? But she never texted Neal that she left.” 

 

Neal shrugs. “She got into it with Blanchard,” he predicts. “You know Regina.” The others nod knowingly, content with that deduction. Emma huffs in frustration, glaring at the window. Maybe it’s just in her head, but she doesn’t like this. Regina isn’t one to disappear completely, even at the worst of moments. 

 

She wanders from the office, pacing up and down the street so no one can judge her too much for obsessing. Maybe she should drop by the school– just in case Regina  _ is  _ having a blowout fight with Mary Margaret, or if…

 

She sighs and picks up her phone, dialing Mary Margaret’s number. “Did Regina come?” she asks without preamble.

 

A moment of hesitation, and then, Mary Margaret says slowly, “She did.” 

 

“And? How did she take it?” Another moment of silence. Emma says, heart thumping, “Well?” 

 

Mary Margaret misunderstands her nudge. “No,” she answers, and Emma’s heart sinks. “But I did plant the idea. Give her a few days…” Her voice trails off. There’s something she’s still holding back, and Emma wants to rush her, wants to demand answers, an odd urgency pushing her. But she holds herself back and waits, waits, until Mary Margaret blurts out, “She left with her mother. I don’t know how she knew Regina was here. But she–” 

 

Emma hangs up, her racing heart shifting into full-blown panic. Regina has been avoiding Cora since the picture with Robin, has been ignoring her calls with a boldness unheard of even from Regina. Cora has a certain power over Regina, the power to break her to pieces, and even Regina knows it. And now she’s alone with Cora while at her most vulnerable–

 

Emma takes off. Gold-Mills Consulting has an office at the other end of Main Street, just a few blocks from the school. If Regina has been brought in there with her mother, then Emma will force her way in, will do everything in her power to interfere with whatever spell Cora has put her under–

 

_ Wait _ . There Regina is, walking down the block toward Emma with a folder tucked under her arm. She looks startled to see Emma, and she blinks, looking around as though expecting Neal to be underfoot as well. “Are you working?” she asks when she reaches Emma. “I thought we were taking today off.”

 

“Come with me.” The street is quiet, but Emma looks around warily and pulls Regina into the quiet enclosed area where Granny’s has outdoor seating. Regina looks baffled and a little apprehensive, which does nothing for Emma’s concern. “Do you have news for us?” Emma asks, pressing forward with the most urgent question. “Do we have a candidate?” 

 

Regina shakes her head very quickly. “Mary Margaret was a wash,” she says, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Unbearable as always.” 

 

“Okay. We’ll find someone else,” Emma says, darting another furtive glance at Regina. There’s a shadow over her face, now, and Emma wonders if she’s thinking through what Mary Margaret had suggested to her.

 

Emma had spoken to Mary Margaret, had let her know what Regina had been planning to ask her, and Mary Margaret had been bewildered from the start. “To be honest, I thought you’d just replace Locksley with Regina,” she’d said, and Emma had exhaled and told her to _ say so _ .

 

Regina  _ is  _ their best chance, has always been their best chance, and they can no longer afford to wait around until she figures that out. Emma watches her carefully now, searching for signs of some kind of internal conflict, but Regina is passive, unconflicted, standing casually opposite her with no furrow to her brow. The shadow is gone.

 

And that, somehow, worries Emma even more. “Are you going to the office?” she presses, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

 

Regina shrugs.  _ Shrugs _ , as though the campaign isn’t her lifeblood, as though she’s ever passed up a chance to work. “Is the team there?” The folder against her side is tucked in a little tighter, a little further out of sight. 

 

“Yeah. We’re running out of time,” Emma reminds her uneasily. “We need a candidate–” 

 

“I don’t know if we’ll find one,” Regina confesses, and she looks… _ resigned _ . As though she’s already conceded this one, and Emma stares at her in horror, then at the folder under her arm.

 

“What did your mother  _ say _ to–” She reaches out and snatches the folder from Regina as Regina lets out a yelp of protest, her eyes narrowing as she opens it. Her heart stops beating altogether for an instant as she takes in the folder’s contents. “Are these– is this–” 

 

“Emma, please,” Regina says, and she sounds pained. 

 

Emma doesn’t care, for a protracted moment. Her heart is pounding now, faster and faster in sheer betrayal. “These are  _ registrations _ . For…for classes at  _ Yale _ . For next term. Regina, what the  _ hell _ ?” 

 

She’s waiting for a denial, for some excuse–  _ my mother did this in my name, it was a misunderstanding, of course I wouldn’t go back to school _ – but instead, Regina looks away, into the thick shrubbery around the enclosure. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I have to…I have to have something for after, you know?”

 

“No!” Emma says, and anger flows through her, hot and bitter, as she drops the folder on a table. “You have a  _ campaign  _ to run next term. You can’t run off to Yale. How the hell are we going to save Storybrooke when–” 

 

“We aren’t saving Storybrooke!” Regina shoots back, and she sounds close to tears.  _ Good _ . Good, because Emma’s about to cry herself, with Regina who  _ never  _ loses hope crumbling in front of her. “I made the wrong call with Robin. All the wrong calls. We had a chance, maybe, with a better candidate or just with a  _ candidate _ , but now we have no chance anymore! We have nothing! So  _ no _ , I’m not going to spend the next six months doing nothing but dwelling on what we’ve lost. I have to– I have to keep moving forward–” 

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Emma says furiously, and Regina falls silent, her eyes wide and hurt. “Don’t you  _ dare  _ tell me we have nothing. We  _ have  _ a candidate, even if you refuse to acknowledge it–” 

 

Regina shakes her head, her voice wet. “You’ve been talking to Mary Margaret.  _ Emma– _ ”

 

“I’ve been talking to  _ everyone _ ,” Emma croaks out, and Regina falls silent, her head shaking slowly as Emma speaks. “We’ve all been talking. We’ve all been waiting for you to– to take this position that was  _ made  _ for you–” 

 

Regina laughs harshly. “Like hell it was,” she says. “You–  _ you  _ know better than anyone how I’d fuck up the campaign. I’m young. I’m unlikable. I’m sharp. I’m terrible at…at charming people, at making them believe–” 

 

“You made me believe,” Emma whispers, and the tears finally begin to fall, wet and hot on her cheeks. “You–  _ damn it _ , you made me believe in this fucking campaign, and now you’re backing out? You don’t get to back out! You don’t get to make backup plans!” Regina looks at her in agonized guilt, in deep resignation, and Emma shakes her head, tears sliding down her face. “You don’t get to make me  _ care  _ and then…and then abandon ship…” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Regina whispers, and she’s crying, too, silent tears that slip down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I wish I could– I wish I could be the person that Storybrooke needs. I  _ do _ . I was so damned  _ jealous  _ of Robin for just getting a chance to be the person to change things, but I knew I could never…” She inhales a shuddering breath. “I wish I could. I wish I could be what you want–” 

 

Emma aches, feels her cheeks wet and blotchy at that quiet addition, at a gulf that stretches between them beyond any campaign. “You already are,” she says brokenly, and Regina sucks in a ragged breath and shakes her head, shakes her head. “Storybrooke trusts you. Storybrooke needs you,” Emma says helplessly. “The campaign needs you. I…I need you,” she chokes out, and she lurches forward, tears still streaming down her face.

 

Regina catches her, hands resting on Emma’s waist. Emma lays her hands against Regina’s shoulders and feels Regina dip forward, their foreheads pressed together and Regina’s hand rising to stroke her jaw. A tear is brushed away with her thumb, then another, and Emma sobs helplessly at the thought of this, of  _ giving up _ , of the roots she’d planted in Storybrooke being swept away by a storm. “Don’t you  _ dare  _ give up on us now,” she whispers fiercely, her fingers digging into Regina’s skin. “Don’t you dare hide away from this campaign. We were supposed to  _ change  _ things!” 

 

“I’ll lose,” Regina says in a sob. “I’ll ruin everything for you.”

 

Emma lifts a finger to brush against Regina’s hair, to pull it away from her tearstained face. “You have the best campaign team in the world,” she murmurs. “You’re going to win. You’re going to be  _ mayor _ , and you’re going to be exactly what Storybrooke deserves. Please,” she whispers, a final plea to Regina, begging as she never has before. She wants this so desperately– for a town she’s beginning to love, for a woman who feels destined to be its leader, for  _ Regina _ , in whom she believes more than anything else in the universe– and she can feel despair and hope both scrambling to take hold of her.

 

Regina’s head falls from hers to her shoulder, and her arms slip around Emma. Emma clings to her, wraps her own arms around Regina and holds her in a vise-like embrace, and Regina sighs out another half-sob, her lips just brushing against Emma’s neck before she chokes out, “Okay. Okay.” It’s a surrender, to Emma and to something she holds rigid within herself, and she exhales as though she’s never breathed before.

 

Emma feels her body relax against Regina’s, turns until they’re staring each other in the eyes, the whisper of a kiss between them. “My brother,” Regina reminds her voicelessly, in barely a breath.

 

Emma hurts with the reminder, with the  _ almost  _ that plagues them, with the wall between them that they can’t breach. She aches for Regina more than she had ever thought possible, wants her desperately and knows that Regina would never– not when Neal loves Emma, not if Emma breaks his heart–

 

“I wish,” she murmurs, and she doesn’t know what she might dare to say.  _ I wish I’d met you first. I wish you didn’t care about Neal. I wish I didn’t want you so much that it might still break us _ . 

 

Regina must know, because a careful finger lands on Emma’s lips, gentle but firm. “Shh,” she whispers, and she kisses Emma on the edge of her jawline, just a tiny bit too low on Emma’s cheek to be entirely appropriate. It’s a line they’ve been careful not to cross in recent days, a line they traverse like a circus act, dangling with cautious acrobatics and never losing balance.

 

Emma trembles. Regina says, “We should…we should go to the office.” Her eyes flicker to the folder still open on the table, a hint of indecision still on her face, and Emma snatches the folder up before Regina can retrieve it.

 

She sends a text before they head off slowly toward the office. They walk close, Regina wringing her fingers together at her abdomen, Emma with her arms at her side, her knuckles brushing against Regina’s side more than once. “I don’t do anything unless the whole team is on board,” Regina says, staring ahead with a palpable anxiety. “I won’t make them support me on this unless they really do believe that I’m a worthwhile candidate. I don’t want them throwing away the next few months on…” 

 

Her voice trails off, and Emma sees what she’s seen and smiles. “You were saying?” she murmurs. 

 

One week ago, they had taken down the old  _ Locksley for Storybrooke  _ sign that had flapped in the wind above campaign headquarters. It had been replaced after Emma’s go-ahead text with a new sign, resplendent in purple and gold.  **_REGINA MILLS: TAKING BACK OUR STORYBROOKE_ ** , it reads, Regina’s smiling face beside it. Hanging there, a beacon of  _ hope _ , it looks as though it fits better than anything  _ Locksley _ ever had.

 

Regina stares up at it, her hand rising to cover her mouth, and Emma says, a little teasingly, “You know, it’s okay if you want to cry again. I’d cry.” Regina looks overwhelmed, and she’s blinking hard. She stares at the sign and Emma remembers a blurted out confession–  _ I wish I could. I knew I could never…  _

 

She could have, and she will, and Emma knows it as well as anyone. Maybe not before, when they’d first met and Emma hadn’t understood how anyone could like Regina. But now, her face plastered beside a new slogan, their campaign team watching silently from the window below it, Regina has never belonged anywhere more.

 

Regina doesn’t cry. She straightens, her eyes narrowing with renewed focus, and she says, “No time. We have work to do.”

 

And she strides into campaign headquarters, Emma at her side.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am falling asleep sitting up but HERE IS SOME FLUFF. Y'all deserve it after making it through the past few chapters!! Much thanks to Maia, who decided we needed this, and to all of you wonderful people who have been reading and commenting on the fic!! You've been my lifeline during this very, very exhausting month omg.
> 
> A note: I will probably switch to updating Mondays next week and for the duration of the fic!

**JULY 23**

_ 106 Days Until the General Election _

 

Anna Arendelle faces the camera with a bright smile on her face. “Hans, I’m here at Town Hall, where the former Locksley campaign appears to be ready to submit the paperwork to replace their candidate with Regina Mills, former deputy campaign manager. Mills is the favored choice, but she’s also a controversial one. At twenty-five, she would be the youngest mayor that Storybrooke has ever had. She has yet to complete any higher education, and she has, of course, been embroiled in the scandal that pushed her predecessor out of her position.” 

 

Regina does her best to ignore the woman still filming beside her. The other reporters hadn’t been allowed into Town Hall, but Arendelle is a local news reporter, with all of the connections that that entails. “The Maine All Families party has virtually no presence in this town, or I wonder if they’d have contested her candidacy. Still, Mills is causing a stir in Storybrooke, and many of Locksley’s constituents are pleased with this shift in candidate. Others have expressed some trepidation at the choice. We’ll know if Mills can win them over in November! Back to you, Hans.” 

 

The cameras shut off at last, and Regina slides the folder of paperwork to the the clerk at the desk. “Is that everything?”

 

It feels like an interminable silence as the clerk rifles through the papers, pausing and frowning as he examines something for a moment. Regina holds her breath, and the clerk looks up and says, “It’s all in order.”

 

Neal reaches out to squeeze her hand, and Tamara lets out an exhale. “Granny’s?” she suggests. There is no celebration to be had in Town Hall, nothing that might undermine this new candidacy or remind their constituents of just how young Regina is.  _ You’re basically forty at heart _ , Emma had pointed out, and Regina had elbowed her in the gut and privately agreed. Now, their constituents have to, too.

 

Mother hasn’t called since Regina had withdrawn her enrollments. Regina’s been written off, most likely, but she doesn’t have time to mourn that now. There’s a campaign on, and they need a new plan of action. 

 

“We have the Back-to-School giveaway,” Emma reminds the others. They’ve been preoccupied since Robin had stepped down, but Emma has been focusing on the giveaway with almost laserlike single-mindedness, and Regina exchanges a glance with Tamara, who clears her throat.

 

“I don’t know if that’s our best move right now,” Tamara says delicately, and Emma swings her head around to look at her in betrayal. “It’s the age factor,” she explains. “Back-to-school means teenagers mingling, and Regina is…well, short. And she kind of has a baby face. It’s cute,” she says, poking Regina’s cheek as Regina scowls. “But we don’t want constituents looking at Regina and noticing just how  _ little _ she is.” 

 

“But we’ve been working on this for weeks. The fliers are ready to go. I was going to place the orders today for the supplies,” Emma protests. “We can gear it toward little kids and keep Regina occupied with them. She looks much older in a pantsuit–” 

 

“Is it really worth the risk, though?” Jacinda says sensibly. “Our first event running Regina?”  

 

Neal puts an arm around Emma, and Regina swallows and looks away from them. “Good thing we didn’t order those supplies, then, right?” he says. Emma doesn’t answer. Regina looks back at her and sees that she’s wrenched away from him, and is sitting stiffly as she watches Regina. “So what do we do instead?”

 

“Emma’s our idea man,” Tamara says. It’s an attempt to brighten up Emma, whose face is stony and set. 

 

Emma’s jaw clenches and she sags, surrendering. “An auction,” she says. “We have a lot of small business owners on our side. They can give away goodies, and we can buy a few things. We do it outdoors, make it accessible to everyone, and Regina can mingle with both sides of Storybrooke. There should still be funds for the giveaway after that–” 

 

“Let it go, Emma,” Neal says, grinning at her, and Emma doesn’t smile back. 

 

She stays in her seat after the others begin to drift away, fiddling with the edges of her jacket and staring into space. Neal prods at her a few times and gets nothing, and he finally shrugs and gets up. “She’s brooding,” he mutters to Regina as he heads out from the diner. “Give her space, okay?” 

 

Regina nods curtly, glancing at Emma again. This isn’t just about a change in plans. Emma is quick to roll with the punches, adapts better than anyone there. Emma doesn’t react like  _ this _ to a simple, painless decision. 

 

When the others are gone, she slides into the seat opposite Emma again, studying her for a moment. “It’s fine,” Emma mumbles. “I’m just thinking.” Her hand goes to her snowflake necklace and she tugs it, once then twice. 

 

“About the auction?” Regina suggests, and Emma looks up at her, caught out.

 

“Yeah,” she lies, and Regina waits. Emma sighs. “No. I just– we can do both, can’t we? So why  _ not _ do both?” 

 

Regina had discussed this with Tamara and Neal on the walk back to Granny’s. Neither one had seen any benefit to bothering with the giveaway anymore, and Regina had understood their concerns there. “Optics aside, we’re understaffed and the auction is going to take up all of our time,” Regina points out. “You remember how much work the dinner dance took. How are we going to put out two major events in August?” 

 

Emma’s eyes narrow, finally faced with a problem. Emma doesn’t do well with nebulous concepts, Regina’s found, but when she’s given a concrete issue, she can take on anything. “I can do it,” she says. “I’ll…I’ll work on it after hours on my own, so everyone else can focus on the auction. I think…” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I think that however we do it, the auction still appeals to one subset of people in Storybrooke– the ones who have money. The giveaway reminds the others that they’re still our priority. Right?” 

 

She sounds uncertain again, the Emma who still has difficulty owning her own strengths, and Regina thinks for a moment. She isn’t wrong. They’ve done a lot of outreach to the community on the other side of Main Street, a lot of interactions in parks and religious locales and a few simple barbecues over the past few months. But a giveaway like this could benefit them in a way that the campaign hasn’t before, and Emma is dedicated to it. Regina trusts Emma’s judgment. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s do it.” 

 

Emma looks at her with a sudden flash of vulnerable hope. “Let’s?” she echoes.

 

“You and me,” Regina says firmly. “After hours only. We do this without getting anyone else involved.” Emma gapes at her, and Regina can feel herself softening, struggling for words to explain why she’s hitched herself to Emma here. “This is…this is important to you,” she says finally. “And I don’t doubt that you can pull it off. So let me help you.” 

 

Another tug on her necklace, and Emma’s eyes light up. “We’ve got this,” she says, and she reaches a hand out to take Regina’s hand from where it rests on the table and holds it in her own for a moment. “ _ Thank you _ ,” she breathes, and in the face of Emma’s gratitude and awe, Regina is unable to speak.

 

* * *

 

For all her hard work and what has felt like ceaseless energy this campaign, Emma has never noticed just how  _ exhausted  _ she gets at the end of a workday until it’s 6:00 PM on the day after Regina had officially signed on as their candidate, the others are finally drifting from the office, and Regina sits down beside her with a container of what looks like home-cooked pot roast and says, “Ready to get started?” 

 

Emma jerks awake in her seat, shrugging away the exhaustion with the help of the scent of pot roast, and says, “Is that whole thing for you?” 

 

Regina holds up a turkey sandwich. “This is for me. _ That  _ is for you. I’ve seen how much you inhale at lunchtime.” 

 

“I need it for  _ energy _ ,” Emma says, looking longingly at the pot roast. A thought strikes her. “Wait. I thought you ate out with Marian last night. And the night before  _ that  _ was the celebratory dinner after you agreed to run, and the night before  _ that  _ we had that rice together at the apartment– how old are these leftovers?” 

 

Regina sticks a metal fork in her hand. “Eat. We have work to do.”

 

The food  _ tastes  _ fresh, which is baffling, considering that if Regina had made it for herself, she isn’t even eating it. It’s also quite a bit easier on Emma’s taste buds than that rice had been. Maybe it had been frozen and defrosted. Emma finishes in record time, half-lost in ecstasy, and Regina smirks beneath her hand and calls up the flier that Jacinda had been working on.

 

“We have to change the logo,” Regina says, squinting at it. “Town Hall stays open until seven on Mondays, so we’ll go there after work to get the permits we need. None of this happens on the clock, right?” She clicks on the image. “We finish this quickly, work on ideas tomorrow after work, and then we can have it printed on Monday once we have the permits. Sound good?” 

 

Emma bobs her head, a little dumbfounded. It’s clear that Regina has  _ thought  _ about this, enough to put together a loose schedule and to take it seriously. It’s been some of the most harrowing days of their lives– of Regina’s more than anyone– and Regina is still determined to work on Emma’s pet project. “It’s okay if you want to– if you need to get home,” she says swiftly. “We need you at your best. I can do this alone.” 

 

Regina fixes her with a glare. “I said I’d help, so I will,” she says curtly, opening the logo file and pasting it into the flier. It’s too big, and she resizes it, distorting the image. She shrugs and turns to Emma, pressing her lips together for a moment and then admitting in a low voice, “You pushed me to give myself a chance. I want to do the same for you.” 

 

There’s a light flush on her cheeks, an embarrassment at even admitting that, and Emma swallows, uncertain what to do with Regina when they have these charged moments that are becoming more and more common. “Are you…” She swallows again. “Are you happy with what you decided?” 

 

“I don’t know,” Regina says, struggling to fix the logo as it grows even more skewed. She deletes it and drags the file back into the flier again with a huff of frustration. “A part of me still can’t forget that I’m a twenty-five-year-old college dropout–” 

 

“You don’t  _ have  _ to go to college–” Emma points out, and gets a withering stare for it. “–yet,” she finishes, remembering her audience. It all seems rather irrelevant to her, when faced with an opportunity to actually  _ do  _ what you’ve always wanted to, but Regina’s grown up in a world where there are no other alternatives. “Being mayor of a small town sounds like it’s ninety percent just sitting around doing paperwork. You could probably go to school and govern at the same time.” 

 

Regina laughs aloud, and Emma gives her a baleful look and puts her hand onto Regina’s on the mouse, moving the cursor toward the button that’ll let the logo shrink properly. Regina’s hand trembles beneath hers, and she whispers, “Jacinda makes this look so easy.” 

 

“Yeah,” Emma says, and she presses down on Regina’s finger, clicks the button with her. Regina’s skin is soft, nothing like Neal’s rough, calloused hands, and her fingers are long and delicate. Her perfectly manicured nails are filed down neatly, and Emma almost gulps at the sight of them, her mind going to places it absolutely shouldn’t go. “There,” she says hoarsely, snatching her hand away. It comes to rest on her necklace, which she still hasn’t been able to remove.

 

_ No _ , she removes it at night, stares at it and wonders exactly what the  _ fuck  _ Regina had been thinking. By morning, it’s back around her neck, and she touches it so often that she’d picked up jewelry cleaner yesterday afternoon to keep it sparkling. 

 

Regina’s eyes flicker to her hand, to the necklace, and she tears her eyes away a moment later and glances instead at the screen. “Okay, logo is resizing,” she says briskly. “Is this too big?”

 

“I think so,” Emma says, squinting at it. “Maybe a tiny bit smaller?” Regina shrinks it. “No, too small.” 

 

“There’s no size in between,” Regina says, frustrated again. “And this font is too all-ages friendly. We need a font that says that this is for children.” She scrolls through the fonts, frowning at the options. “Wait. Is this  _ too  _ childish? We don’t want to remind them of my age, either.” 

 

Emma leans back in her chair, the pot roast finished and beginning to make her drowsy. “You know, there’s a twenty-two year old near Springfield who made mayor last election. Openly gay, too.” 

 

“Massachusetts, too,” Regina says dryly. “I don’t think the town that Cora Mills built would take well to either of those things. My being a woman, or a lesbian, or twenty-five wouldn’t be a dealbreaker in itself. But all three? The country club is having conniptions.” 

 

“Good thing they make up, like, three percent of this town,” Emma points out, yawning as she surveys the flier again. “What’s wrong with Times New Roman?” 

 

Regina stares at her in horror. “Don’t even talk to me right now,” she says, and Emma isn’t completely sure that she’s joking. “Why does the font size keep  _ changing  _ when I switch fonts? How am I supposed to see how it looks if it’s halfway off the page? Jacinda must have a trick for this–” 

 

“We can ask her,” Emma says, to which she gets a quelling look. 

 

“No one else gets involved in this,” Regina says sharply. “I can’t ask any more of them.” She turns back to her nemesis, glaring at the screen as she rants about font sizes and forgets that Emma exists. Emma leans back in her chair, watching Regina fondly as she wages war against the flier. She’s always at her best when she has an enemy to defeat, even if that enemy is her own shoddy grasp of Photoshop. Emma doesn’t know much more than she does, let alone about aesthetics, but every single version that Regina attempts and then dismisses looks fine to her. Regina is a perfectionist, which has always annoyed Emma in other people, but in Regina… 

 

She’s being shaken, and she jolts awake, her eyes flying open. “Wha–?” she says groggily, squinting around. A moment ago, she’d been watching Regina pick out fonts. Now, she’s in the front seat of the Mercedes, and Regina’s hand is rattling her shoulder.

 

She lets go when Emma sits up, looking outside blearily. It’s dark out already. When had that–

 

“You fell asleep,” Regina offers, raising an eyebrow. “I got you into my car, but I don’t think I can do two flights of stairs and Neal isn’t picking up his phone. I suppose it’s  _ you  _ we need at top form. You sure you want to do this?” 

 

Emma blinks at her, struggling to wake up fully. “Yeah,” she says, because  _ that  _ she’s sure of. “I can handle it. Just need to…get a good night’s sleep.” The campaign is much more taxing than she’s ever noticed when she’s getting home by seven and sprawled out on the couch minutes later for the rest of the night.

 

“Okay,” Regina says, politely dubious. “But we’re doing this at my place tomorrow night. I’m not going to be able to carry you to the car every night. Or possibly ever again.” 

 

“I could carry you,” Emma says, which isn’t exactly relevant or a necessary comment, for that matter. In her sleepy mind, it had seemed very important to mention. 

 

Regina stares at her as though that revelation is indeed very important. “I’m sure you could,” she says, her voice a little strained as her eyes linger on Emma’s arms. “Maybe after you sleep.”

 

Emma makes a face at her, just awake enough to flex her arms as she pulls the door open– because she isn’t  _ totally  _ vain but it seems like the thing to do at the time– and stumbles up the stairs to her apartment. Regina doesn’t drive away until Neal has opened the door and Emma is safely inside.

 

* * *

 

Being the candidate is something that Regina has been prepared for her whole life. Mother had trained her to walk, talk, even smile like she’d been on display, and she’s always known that her life would be under a microscope, when the time would come. She’s been careful to avoid scandals and skeletons in her closet, save for her sexuality, and she’s always been _ ready _ .

 

Until now, when it had all happened so quickly that she’d gone from  _ power behind the throne  _ and  _ Cora’s girl  _ to candidate in barely an instant. Now, people nudge each other when she walks past, whisper her name and point to yard signs with her face. She can’t make it more than a few minutes in any public arena before someone comes over to tell her what they think of her. She’s thirty points behind in polling, and she’s still getting the same treatment as the current mayor does.

 

“I think it’s brave,” says a girl at Granny’s, her eyes glowing. “To run for mayor when you know you can’t win. I bet Killian Jones will offer you a job for it. He said on TV yesterday that he likes your moxie.” 

 

“Killian Jones knows  _ moxie  _ about as well as he knows town ordinances,” Regina says, flashing a wide smile lest she alienate a potential voter’s daughter. “I really must get going.” She seizes her coffee from Ruby and makes her escape, back to the office.

 

She also has beignets she’d picked up from Sabine’s bakery, which Drew had given to her on the house and also advised her to  _ pick a less prissy picture for signs _ . She’d gone there to support the establishment, of course. Not because Emma’s eyes light up when she sees them and she makes a mad dash for the door.

 

“You’re like a puppy when their owner comes home,” Regina says dryly, letting the door shut behind her before she hands over the beignets. 

 

“I sold my soul to those beignets months ago,” Emma says, her mouth full. “They  _ do  _ own me. Here.” She offers Regina one. “Eat this. I know you love them.” 

 

“I have to fit into my wardrobe until November,” Regina shoots back. 

 

Emma gives her a long look. “You have to be  _ pleasant  _ until November. You need sugar for that. Here,” she says again, and Regina takes the beignet reluctantly. They really  _ are  _ good. Emma is licking off her fingers, tongue dipping between two of them to get at the sticky sugar, and Regina gapes at her, her throat dry and her belly suddenly alive with wanting.

 

She tears her gaze from Emma, feeling a heat in her forehead as she faces the others, and says, “What’s going on?” 

 

“Emma has our volunteers going door-to-door on Main Street to get donors for the auction,” Tamara says, darting forward to pluck a beignet from the bag. “I’m looking into prospects for our new deputy chief of staff. Marian wants to help out, but in a more limited capacity, and we can’t do much without someone calling the shots. I thought maybe we could interview someone from Portland with the political know-how.” 

 

“We have a good group now,” Sabine argues. “Do we really want to shake things up  _ now _ ?” 

 

Regina blinks, considering the idea of someone else sharing their space with them. Or of them giving her orders. “I can do the same thing I’ve always done.” 

 

“Financial advisor  _ and  _ deputy chief of staff  _ and  _ candidate?” Tamara says skeptically. “This might be a small town, but that’s two too many jobs for a candidate to focus on.” 

 

Neal puts up a hand. “Hello. Actual chief of staff here. Don’t I get a say?” 

 

“I can definitely do some of it,” Marian says, ignoring him. “And if Regina can hold the rest, we’ll be fine. I just don’t want her overtaxed. And I don’t want to be on the payroll, you know?” 

 

Regina nods. “Okay. Let’s do that.” She settles into a chair beside Marian’s, sliding her hand onto Marian’s arm. “Our volunteers outnumber Jones’s by nearly triple. We don’t need another hand in this office.” 

 

“And you also want to do this after-work giveaway project with Emma,” Tamara says, still dubious. “Regina, please be realistic.” 

 

Emma says, “I don’t want to wear her out.” She looks guilty and defensive, as though she’s under attack instead of Regina, and she bites her lip. “I can–” 

 

“No,” Regina says hastily, because for some unknowable reason, Emma is dedicated to this giveaway, and Emma deserves support for it. And Regina won’t give anyone else on her team any extra work, but she can easily handle an hour or two a night. It’s after hours, anyway, and Emma has laid plenty of groundwork over the past few weeks, too. It won’t be too bad. It’s just one event. “I can do it all. Marian is helping. Emma is helping. It’s not like replacing Robin means I’m doing any more work than I was before.” 

 

Tamara snorts. “Okay, fair. Do your side project. I see you crashing, I stop you. Deal?” 

 

Tamara has treated her like a kid sister for years, since her college days with Neal, and it’s sometimes frustrating and sometimes a relief. Today, it feels like a safeguard that Regina will probably need, which is as frustrating and relieving as ever. “Deal,” she sighs, and she sips at her coffee and peers at the figures that Marian’s been working on as the others disperse.

 

Marian nudges her. “You okay?” 

 

“Fine. Drew thinks my campaign signs aren’t  _ showing off how sexy I am _ ,” she says, tucking a foot under her thigh. 

 

“Good,” Marian says, her brow creasing. “Why would he think–” 

 

“You  _ are _ doing very well with the 18-25 demographic,” Emma says, poking her head over the cubicle wall to wiggle her eyebrows. Regina glowers at her.

 

Marian says mildly, “I’ve noticed,” and Emma reddens and stops wiggling her eyebrows. “You two are planning to get the permits for the giveaway from Town Hall, right?”

 

“Tonight after work,” Emma says, poking her head back up. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be discussing it during work, though,” she says primly, a flash of amusement in her eyes. “Right, Regina?” 

 

Marian shakes her head at them. “The late-night clerk at Town Hall is a big Boy Scouts guy. Will Scarlet. Just thought I’d warn you,” she says. “I don’t know if he’ll cause any trouble for you. But be on guard, okay?” 

 

Another obstacle, this one the confoundingly rare person in this town who must actually  _ like  _ Robin Locksley. Regina pushes that aside for now, determined on focusing on what’s in front of her instead. She works with Mulan on her speech for the auction, piecing it together to her satisfaction and then portions out funding for their two coming projects. The giveaway is going to cost a small fortune, even if they use the vendors that Emma had found who are willing to co-sponsor. It might even top the dinner dance for their priciest event yet, and this one won’t be bringing in many donations, not with the demographic who will be attended. Harried parents who can’t afford school supplies are hardly going to be dropping thousands on a political campaign.

 

It will gain them votes, though, and for that, it’s important. Well, for that and for Emma, who works on the auction with enthusiasm and glances only occasionally at the folder on her desk that contains the giveaway’s prep work. She doesn’t want to think about why it is that she’s so determined to help Emma. That way lies sleepless nights and hopeless pining.

 

It’s because this giveaway makes  _ sense _ , and because Emma has a unique, instinctive grasp on campaigning that is more effective in some ways than Regina’s by-the-book campaign strategy. Regina trusts Emma. And Emma thinks the giveaway is important.

 

Still, there’s also something else about it that has Emma absorbed in it, something she hasn’t explained. Emma is doing this for personal reasons. Emma, who had begged Regina not to leave the campaign– who had laid herself out with vulnerability so Regina might give herself a chance– Emma is desperate to do this giveaway. And Regina knows she’d walk barefoot on hot coals rather than to disappoint Emma like she nearly had before.

 

_ Sleepless nights. Hopeless pining. Don’t think about it. _ But it’s already too late.

 

* * *

 

“Robin Locksley really has friends?” Emma says dubiously as they walk down Main Street to Town Hall. Today has been interminable, hours spent working on another project and trying her best not to be distracted by thoughts of the giveaway. “He didn’t bring any in during the campaign.” 

 

“Boy Scout buddies, I guess,” Regina says, only her fingers twisting together a sign of her nervousness. Emma slips a hand over hers to still it, keeping it steady, and promptly forgets her train of thought when Regina’s fingers lace into hers. “Has Neal been in contact with Robin since he stepped down?” 

 

Emma shakes her head, feeling Regina’s hand fall from hers with the mention of Neal. “Not unless you’ve heard reports of Robin’s body bobbing through the Atlantic Ocean,” she says, grimacing. “And I would have  _ helped _ then. Are you sure you’re okay with…I can really go to Town Hall alone. I have all the forms for the permits.” She proffers the folder. 

 

Regina gives her a dark look. “I’m not  _ afraid  _ of Robin’s friends. I’m not some delicate– some delicate flower who needs to be protected after a  _ traumatic ordeal _ .” She says it mockingly, as though nothing she’d experienced had come close to that, and Emma watches her for a moment, waits. Regina’s shoulders fall, the pretense gone as quickly as it had come, and she says in a low voice, “I can’t hide away. It’s not me. I want to do this.” 

 

Emma hesitates. “Okay,” she says. “But if it gets tense in there…” 

 

“I’ll let you do the punching,” Regina says, her eyes crinkling into a smile. “I’d never take that pleasure away from you.” There is something about the softness of her smile that has Emma swallowing, her heart fluttering as she turns away to pull the door to Town Hall open for Regina.

 

They find the clerk fairly quickly. He’s a tall man, not much older than Regina, and he sits back in his chair and looks at them with a puggish expression on his face. “Your forms are incomplete,” he says when Emma hands it over, barely glancing down at the papers. 

 

“I think you’ll find they’re in order, actually,” Regina says tersely, flipping through the papers to show him. 

 

“You’re missing a form,” he says, and he looks stubbornly defensive, enough that Emma already wants to jump to the punching part. “This is just the Public Parks and Space form. You don’t have the form for serving fruit outdoors, but you state clearly–” He jabs a finger at their form. “You plan to serve fresh fruit at your event. There’s a special form for that, and you’ll have to get it approved via the state of Maine, not just Storybrooke.” 

 

Regina, who knows every town ordinance back-to-front, looks stymied. “We didn’t have to fill out a form for  _ serving fruit _ for our other events.” 

 

The clerk–  _ WILL SCARLET _ , his nameplate on the desk pronounces him– sits back. “You must have gotten a more careless clerk,” he says, implacable. “I can’t give you the permit if you intend to serve fruit at your event. It’s a matter of public health.” 

 

Regina takes out her phone, googling swiftly, and looks up with her eyes flashing. “That law was put into effect  _ seventy years ago _ . It hasn’t been enforced in decades.” 

 

“It’s still the law,” Scarlet says stubbornly. “My job is to follow the law. Don’t you want to be mayor?” he says, glaring at Regina. “Do you think you’re above the law?” 

 

“Fine,” Emma cuts in. “We won’t serve fruit. Give us the permit.” 

 

“Not so fast,” Scarlet says, and he looks up at them, smug again. “How late do you plan on playing music? And these bounce houses you want can’t be more than ten feet tall, as per the ordinance regarding eyesores in public places–” 

 

Regina stares at him, her eyes dark. “Give me every form I need,” she says in a low voice.

 

“He’ll just give us more,” Emma says, disgusted. “He’s going to use every loophole against us as some fucked up  _ revenge  _ for Locksley stepping down. You think that’s noble?” she demands, slamming her hand on the desk. Scarlet’s smug smile doesn’t leave his face. “You think you’re  _ helping  _ your friend by tormenting the woman he already tried to  _ assault _ –”

 

“ _ Emma _ ,” Regina says sharply and Emma falls silent, chastised but stubborn enough to keep glowering at Scarlet. “We need those forms,” Regina says tightly.

 

Scarlet glowers back at Emma, then Regina. “Don’t forget the one where you consent that all items being distributed will have to undergo inspection by government officials,” he says curtly. “There’s a six-week waiting period.” 

 

And just like that, with an ordinance so ancient that Regina doesn’t even know it, their plans are crushed. “You can’t do that,” Emma says furiously. “We need them for August 23. That’s under four weeks. This is  _ bullshit _ . I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish here, but–” 

 

“Emma,” Regina says tersely. “Let’s go. There are other clerks.” 

 

“Not this week,” Scarlet says, complacent. “The other clerk is on leave. I’ll be here full time until mid-August.” He leans back in his chair. “Did you think there would be no consequences for humiliating and tossing aside Robin like you did?” he says, his eyes boring into them. “Do you think–” 

 

Emma pulls back her arm to punch him, fed up, and Regina seizes her elbow. “Let’s go,” she says in a low tone, holding Emma back until Emma is breathing evenly again. “We’re wasting time. Let’s  _ go _ , Emma.” She pulls Emma with her, away from that damned clerk and his damned smug features, and Emma rages in silence.

 

She doesn’t speak until they’re turning away from Main Street, walking the three blocks to Regina’s apartment. “We can get him on his day off.” 

 

“If he has a day off,” Regina says tightly. “He seemed pretty set on being there whenever we needed those permits.” She’s angry, too, but it’s more tightly controlled within her, coiled as though it will unfurl cold and slow. “He’s going to do anything he can to stop us.” 

 

“Fuck him,” Emma says, still so furious that she can barely get out the words. “I’ll make sure he takes a  _ day off _ . I’ll go pay Locksley a visit–” 

 

“ _ No _ .” Regina catches Emma’s arm again, holding it loosely with her thumb and forefinger, and she studies Emma for a moment before she finally says, “Is this really worth it? What the hell is so important about this giveaway that we need to grovel to Robin Locksley and his ilk for it?” She looks at Emma pleadingly, and Emma’s heart sinks. “I want to do this,” she says. “I trust you. But I don’t understand.” 

 

Emma doesn’t want to explain. There is a part of her that is still leery of sharing too much with Regina, of highlighting just how distant their worlds are from each other, and she chooses and discards words as they walk along the route back to Regina’s apartment. Regina unlocks the door in silence, and she kicks off her heels and tugs off her pantsuit jacket. She disappears into the kitchen a moment before Emma follows.

 

Regina has some kind of vegetable mix in her crock pot, and she empties it into a bowl and mixes it with a sauce before she puts the whole thing in the oven. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t turn around to Emma, only waits for Emma to say something. 

 

And finally, Emma sinks down at her kitchen table and says, “I had a backpack. That was about it. Some years, my foster parents would send me in with some of the supplies from the supply list. Usually, they didn’t bother. At the group homes, we rarely even had pencils for homework. They would disappear as soon as we’d get a new pack.” Even the group mothers who’d tried wouldn’t have the time or funding to keep restocking, and Emma had gotten in trouble on more than one occasion in elementary school when she’d used crayon or pen instead of the required pencil. 

 

Regina is listening as she cooks, quiet as Emma swallows. “Some years, the teachers would give me spares. But the schools were underfunded, too. I had a few teachers who would buy me supplies out of their own pocket rather than leave me with nothing. Not many. I was always…a problem, I guess. I would start every school year as  _ someone to deal with  _ because of it. I never had…folders, or notebooks, or any of the shiny new school supplies that the other kids had.” 

 

She remembers feeling out of place, defeated, someone who was never going to manage in her classrooms. The other children would come in on the first day all set for school, armed with everything they might possibly need, and Emma had felt shabby and unworthy beside them. She’d never tried very hard in school, had never felt any urge to push herself, not when she’d known she was already doomed to another year of not being enough.

 

She shrugs. “Sorry. It’s dumb,” she admits, feeling wholly exposed. “I just…if we can give a bunch of kids like me pencils and folders and erasers and call it  _ campaigning _ , isn’t that…” She shrugs again, self-conscious, even though Regina can’t see it. “I think we’ll win. But even if we don’t, at least we’ll have done something for them. I don’t know. It’s dumb,” she says again, and she stares at the table. “I didn’t mean to bring my baggage into the campaign. And I don’t want you to waste time with a lost cause–” 

 

“It isn’t a lost cause,” Regina says, and she turns. The terse anger is gone from her face, replaced with steely determination. “We’ll go back next Monday night and talk to him again. This time, we won’t take no for an answer.” Emma stares at her, feeling even more vulnerable now than before. Regina twists her fingers together. “You’re right,” she says. “I don’t know if we’ll win. But I want this campaign to be worth something.” 

 

She looks self-conscious now, too, and she turns abruptly away. “The casserole will be ready soon,” she says. “Let’s start talking to those vendors you’ve been emailing. We’ll get the permits.” She sounds sure of it in that uniquely Regina way, the tone that makes Emma positive that they’ll succeed, and Emma watches her for a quiet moment and believes.

 

* * *

 

This is a terrible, terrible idea, and Emma doesn’t realize exactly how terrible it is until they’re stretched out on Regina’s floor one night, squinting at pencil variants in an attempt to pick out the best ones. Regina has long ago changed out of her work clothes into an oversized sweater she’d stolen from Neal and a pair of yoga pants, her bare feet wiggling in the air behind them.

 

“I never thought I’d be here,” Regina murmurs, scrolling down to enlarge one of the pencils. 

 

Emma sneaks a glance at her. “Your mother’s thirty-year presidency plan didn’t allow for opinions on pencils?” she says lightly. 

 

Regina rolls her eyes. “ _ Please _ , I can have opinions on anything. That’s a required trait for a politician.” She deepens her voice. “ _ Round  _ pencils? You want to distribute  _ round  _ pencils? Don’t you care about our children at all? School funding allows for only a certain number of pencils per classroom. In selecting round pencils, you ensure that more than half of them will roll away and be lost because you’ve chosen a kitschy design over  _ function _ . And  _ that  _ is the current flaw in the Storybrooke administration,” she says gravely, and she sounds so adamant about it that Emma stares at her in startled bemusement.

 

“Uh. Okay,” she ventures. “We’ll get the…the ones with the hexagonal sides?” But Regina’s already grinning, laughing at her with her eyes bright, and Emma leans back against her propped-up hand and admires the way she looks when she’s unburdened. 

 

Regina is gentler now than she used to be, still disciplined and sharp and wry and irritable when things don’t go her way– but there’s a softness to Regina that Emma is only beginning to learn about now. Regina belongs in heels and pantsuits, striding through town as though she owns it. Regina belongs in that giant sweater, padding barefoot across her apartment to curl onto the couch with her laptop while they sort out the giveaway budget.

 

Both versions of Regina are enough to make Emma weak-kneed, and she forgets to be subtle and says, “You never thought you’d be where, then?” 

 

“Here,” Regina says, and she turns to the screen picks out a pencil design at last. “Actually  _ running  _ for something without it being Mother’s pet project.” She looks troubled for a moment. “She hasn’t called me since I announced my candidacy.” 

 

“She will,” Emma says encouragingly, though she doesn’t feel it. Cora Mills is a mercurial, power-hungry she-demon, and Emma can’t imagine that she would ever surrender to her daughter’s whims. 

 

Regina gives her a look that makes it very clear that she knows that Emma’s lying. “I’m not worried that she might not be supportive. I  _ know _ she isn’t supportive. I’m worried about what she’s plotting. I don’t want her dragging you into whatever punishment she has planned for me this time,” she says fiercely, and that’s the moment when Emma understands exactly how dire this terrible idea of hers is.

 

Because Regina like this is  _ beautiful _ , intoxicating in her determination to help Emma and fight for what’s right, and Emma is lying on the floor next to her and can only think about exactly that. Emma, who has a boyfriend, who is meant to be content with him instead of in awe of his sister. Emma, who could certainly never end things with Neal without losing Regina.

 

And now they’re alone in an apartment together, and Regina is staring at Emma as though she’s something precious to be protected, and Emma is helpless beneath that gaze. “I don’t…I’m a lot more worried about what she’ll do to you,” she manages, catching Regina’s eyes and holding them.

 

Regina shakes her head. “I don’t have anything to use against me,” she promises. “I’ve lived my whole life like I’ve been running for president.” She laughs wryly, the mood too calm for bitterness. “Squeaky-clean, aside from that pesky lesbianism.” 

 

Emma has been struck by fear for Regina in  _ that  _ regard before. “Do you think she’d out you?”

 

Regina shakes her head. “She needs me closeted,” she says adamantly. “She will never give up on getting me back under her thumb. She’ll go after the people I– the people who are important to me instead.” 

 

Emma is so, so fucked. “You said she’d go after me,” she says, and immediately regrets it. Regina turns away from her, staring at the pencils on the screen for a few long minutes, and Emma says hastily, “I mean, she’ll find material. There was some petty shoplifting. I ran away so many times that they tried moving me to new locations.” 

 

Regina blinks at her. “Did they hope you’d get lost?”  

 

Emma shakes her head. “They thought I must have been running off to be with someone. But I was on my own. I never had anyone waiting for me.” She sits up, shrugging it off. “I don’t think your mother is going to find anything more sensational than that. No murder, no significant violence, no…no secret babies,” she says, laughing at the idea of it.

 

Regina quirks an eyebrow. “I like how you have to clarify that there’s no  _ significant  _ violence in your past. Just the regular insignificant kind, then, huh?”

 

“Rude.” Emma throws a couch pillow at Regina. Regina snatches it out of the air and throws it back. “You can’t tell me you’re really squeaky-clean,” she argues, taking another tack. “You must have done  _ something _ . Shoplifted for the thrill of it–” Regina shakes her head. “Drank before the legal drinking age–”

 

“Never where anyone would see,” Regina says, shrugging. “Mother kept a tight leash. I might have had Gold do some questionable things to those girls Neal dated, but none of it was  _ technically  _ illegal. Just very vindictive.” She looks a little sheepish about it now, a little smug.

 

Emma leans back against the side of the couch, watching Regina carefully. “And all this for breaking Neal’s heart?” She doesn’t know what fate would await her, in that eventuality, or what Regina might do to her.

 

But Regina shakes her head, her eyes boring into Emma for a moment. “No. These girls…each one of them dragged Neal into some kind of ridiculous scheme and then left him to pick up the pieces. I made sure that they paid for that. But breaking Neal’s heart is…is unforgivable,” she says hastily, and she looks guilty that it’s taken her so long to say it. “Especially when he’s so in love and so  _ trusting _ about it.” There is no doubt what she’s saying now.

 

“Yeah,” Emma says, and she feels weighed down for the first time in a while when she thinks about her boyfriend, about the ties that bind her both to him and to his stepsister. 

 

Regina, sitting up beside her, looks equally weighted by them. “Pencils,” she says abruptly, and they return to the computer screen.

 

They spend most of their time off during the week on the giveaway, hurrying off at the moment that the day ends to make new plans. The auction preparation is going well, and Regina has been balancing both projects well. Emma, very aware that she might be the one to break Regina if she works her too hard, is adamant that Regina stops working before she crashes.

 

They put up fliers for the event, and Regina finds out Will Scarlet’s address and tacks one to his door as a declaration of war. “He’ll fold,” she says confidently. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll go over his head. Mayor Heller is the last person I want to associate with, but he’s always had a soft spot for me.” 

 

Emma, less readily prone to subtlety, grabs a rock from the ground and nearly succeeds in hurling it through Scarlet’s window. A hand on her wrist stops her. “ _ Emma _ .” 

 

Neal is bemused by Emma’s fixation on the giveaway, but readily supportive. “Just go easy on yourselves,” he makes them promise. “Don’t overwork yourselves.” 

 

But it’s almost impossible not to at times. There’s much too much to get done, even after wrangling vendors. They decide on free tees when they’re under budget, and then they have to organize food and entertainment as well. Everything is geared toward the kids, rather than the teens who will be there, and Emma wracks her brain for what she can do to make it  _ more _ , to win votes and make it an event worth remembering at election time.

 

Regina is the next one to fall asleep in front of the computer, drifting off in the middle of an email with her head falling back onto the couch. Emma watches her with deep affection. Her hair is frizzing at the edges, her lips parted, and she looks so worn out that Emma can’t bear to wake her up. Instead, she lifts Regina into her arms with a grunt, rising unsteadily and making her way toward Regina’s bedroom as Regina snuggles into her embrace.

 

“Shh,” Emma whispers, her lips just barely brushing Regina’s forehead. Regina is adorable like this, warm in her arms and pressed to her, and Emma is silenced with sheer wanting as she carries Regina to her bed. She lays her down on it, tugging Regina’s deep purple comforter over her, and she steps back to cautiously survey the bedroom.

 

She’s never been in  _ there  _ before, and she’s almost surprised to see that it’s as impersonal as the rest of the apartment. There are a few tasteful art panels on the wall behind her bed, and a photograph of Regina and a man who must be her father sits on the night table. Tucked into it is another little picture, Regina with Neal at some kind of black-tie event, Neal’s arm around her and Regina aglow.

 

“That was last year,” Regina says drowsily, and Emma jumps, setting the frame down. “We’d just begun talking about the idea of running a candidate against Mother’s. I still can’t believe it’s come to this.” She pats her bed, shifting over under the covers, and Emma sits down, then lies on top of the covers beside Regina, too tired to think that through.

 

They’ve been closer, lately, more than before. There are quiet conversations, secrets from Emma’s past, admissions about Regina’s mother murmured under the cover of night. They might never be friends, and their relationship is fraught, but Emma’s beginning to understand the fragmented woman who is Regina Mills. “I can’t believe I’m still  _ here _ ,” she admits. “Let alone with you. I never thought we’d ever…” Her voice trails off.

 

Regina looks at her, eyes gleaming like fathomless pits in the dark. “Never?” she says, and her voice is light. “Was I too much of a rich bitch for you? What do the others call it. A  _ moneyhag _ ?”

 

“No,” Emma says, scowling at her, though Regina can’t see it in the dark. “I got along just fine with Neal, and he’s just as much of a trust fund brat as you are. But you’ve always seemed…above it all, you know?” Regina jerks to stare at her, looking betrayed, and Emma hurries to clarify. “Regina, you’re going to  _ run the country  _ someday. I don’t even have my own apartment yet.” It feels a stark truth to admit, a difference between them that is insurmountable. “Also, you were a total bitch to me for, like…months,” she feels obligated to add.

 

Regina softens, still watching her, still quiet. When she speaks, it’s in a whisper, an admission she’s afraid to share. “I don’t know if I want any of that,” she says, her hands settling to clasp over her stomach.

 

Emma bites her lip. “You don’t want to run for office?” She feels a sudden flash of guilt at how she’d demanded it of Regina, how she’d refused to accept Regina giving up. They’d all been caught up in what the campaign had needed, and they’d forgotten to take Regina’s feelings into account more than once.

 

But Regina is shaking her head. “I want to be mayor,” she murmurs. “I want to…I’m good at paperwork. I’m good at cutting through red tape and negotiating and taking the worst parts of this town and making them something better. But governor? Senator? President?” She exhales, staring at the ceiling. “I have spent so much of my life pretending to be someone I’m not. I want to be mayor of Storybrooke. I want…I want a wife and children and this town I love. I don’t know if I want anything else.” 

 

She looks very young in that moment, anxious as though she’s letting down everyone, and Emma reaches for the hand resting over the covers and slips her own hand into it. “That sounds amazing,” she says, and it does, like an idyllic dream for the sort of people who can set down roots and keep them.  _ Wife and children and this town I love _ . Emma can feel Regina’s  _ wanting  _ so potent that she nearly feels it for herself, and she can’t speak anymore, can’t dare say anything else in the cover of night.

 

It’s Regina who turns the conversation to her. “Owning an apartment is not some measure of accomplishment,” she says abruptly, her hand tightening on Emma’s. “You won the primary for us, Emma. You  _ thrive  _ wherever you go, did you know that? I see it every day. I don’t know how…how the campaign got so  _ lucky  _ to find you–” 

 

Emma’s heart stutters in her chest. “Regina,” she says breathlessly, overwhelmed. “I’m not–” 

 

Regina turns her head, fixes her eyes on Emma. “I never want to hear you say that someone’s  _ above you  _ again,” she whispers. “Not when you’re the one who keeps lifting us up.”

 

It would be so easy in this moment– it’s so tempting in this moment, as easy and necessary as breathing– to roll over in Regina’s bed to hover above her, to crouch over her with her knees firm on either side of Regina’s prone body and to press lips to Regina’s. Emma can see it as vividly as she can the gleam in Regina’s eyes, can imagine Regina kissing her back, pulling her down, hands tangling in Emma’s hair and digging into Emma’s back. Emma can remember her taste, can imagine herself drunk in it again, can kiss and kiss until she pulls that sweater over Regina’s head and tastes the smooth skin she’s never touched beneath it.

 

It would be so easy to kiss Regina until she’s shuddering, to turn her to a whimpering, needy mess, to trace her tongue along those soft curves. It would be so easy to lose herself in Regina and never emerge again, consequences be damned.

 

But it would never be so easy for Regina, and it would hurt Neal more than Emma has ever wanted him hurt. It would ruin the one family relationship both seem to treasure, and so Emma instead knows that she has to get the  _ hell _ out of Regina’s bedroom now.

 

She kisses her– because she’s still so weak, and not selfless enough- a brush of her lips to Regina’s temple, and Regina shivers beneath her, twists a lock of Emma’s golden hair between her fingers. “Goodnight, Emma,” she breathes, and Emma kisses her again, this time just at the shell of her ear. Regina lets out a quiet whimper.

 

Emma could get drunk on this, Regina’s skin beneath her lips. She kisses her a third time, a last time, a time twice too many to be innocent at the fine line of her cheekbone, and Regina squeezes her eyes shut and says nothing at all. “Goodnight, Regina,” Emma manages, and she pulls herself from the bed with all she has and backs out of the room, her eyes still glued to the figure on the bed.

 

Regina’s eyes open as Emma hesitates, frozen in the doorway, and Emma sees the guilt and wanting drawing desperate, grief-stricken lines across her face.

 

* * *

 

Scarlet remains implacable the next Monday, and Regina keeps her face still as Emma nearly shoves a flier in his face. “We’re having this event,” she grits out. “And when Regina’s your  _ boss _ , you’re going to regret giving her the runaround.” 

 

As far as everyone is concerned, the permits are all sorted out and their event is under control. Neither Regina nor Emma has been interested in letting the others know exactly how much trouble they’re having with them. Scarlet, the  _ asshole _ , had cheerily signed off on the permits that Tamara and Neal had needed for the auction when they’d gone to Town Hall. Maybe he’d only done it to screw with Regina. Maybe it’s just easier to forgive someone as likable as Neal, someone who hadn’t been Robin’s  _ target _ .

 

Regina pushes that aside and continues to plan the giveaway instead. They’ll get the permits. She just has to operate under that assumption. They’ve been getting a lot of good press for the giveaway, along with some murmurs at how much they’re pulling off at once. Facilier’s blog had called them  _ the indefatigable Mills campaign _ , and Emma had screencapped it, blown it up, and printed it. She’d cut it out and taped it to the top of Regina’s laptop, a reminder that they can’t fall asleep.

 

They still do, of course. Emma stretches out on Regina’s floor and drifts off at least once an evening, awakened only by the smell of dinner cooking on the stove. Regina has begun sneaking more vegetables into her dinners, loading the food up with proteins and vitamins and just a little more spice than Emma had been able to handle a few weeks ago. There is something about cooking for Emma– for more than just herself– that has her at her stove more than she has been since the campaign had begun, cooking and eating better. 

 

Maybe it’s in how Emma seems to savor every meal, eating with the gusto of someone who has had to fight for her food since childhood. Regina would have been ejected from the table without any more dinner if she’d eaten like that in her own home. Here, she watches Emma with satisfaction and feels only fondness at her appetite. And when they’re cooking and eating, they chat, quiet conversations while they stir and chomp and swallow down mouthfuls of food. 

 

“After Neal– the first time– I fell in with some pretty weird guys,” Emma says one evening, cross-legged on the couch. “Like, body-parts-in-freezer weird.” She’s saying it to make Regina laugh and spit out her water like she had the night before, but Regina’s ready for her this time.

 

“And you think Neal doesn’t have any of those?” Regina counters. Emma laughs mid-bite. Regina sits back, pleased with herself, and then probes a bit more. “Neal did the same after you,” she says, her heart aching a little when she thinks about it. “Had a series of terrible relationships because he was so hung up on what he did to you, I think.” He says that it had been because he’d been so in love with Emma, but Regina remembers how much he’d tolerated from those women, how he’d always seemed just a bit guilty. “Were you in love with him?”

 

“I was  _ seventeen _ ,” Emma reminds her. “I wasn’t  _ in love _ . I was just…” She shrugs, shrinking a little bit into herself. “I didn’t trust easy,” she says, staring at her food. “And I trusted Neal. It fucked me up.” 

 

Regina watches her, and she wants to ask  _ how could you forgive him?  _ but she already knows, knows how Emma craves belonging and people who don’t give up on her. Neal hunting her down in Tallahassee and telling her all the ways that he’d missed her and needed her would have been enough, her single tenuous thread of belonging pulled taut again.

 

Instead, she says, “Let’s call volunteers about face painting,” their brief dinner complete.

 

Sometimes it’s her regaling Emma with stories instead, tales of her travels with Daddy and the places she’d gone, negotiating with his company heads and dancing with women when she’d ventured out on her own. “I never came out to him,” she admits one night, after they’ve finished enough work to call it an evening. Emma is stretched out on the rug, doing sit-ups with her thighs straining and the muscles of her abdomen rippling against the thin material of her tee. Regina watches her, eyes a little glazed, and finds her train of thought again. “After my mother, I was afraid of how he’d take it. I think he knows– he  _ must  _ know by now– but I don’t know. We’ve never talked about it.” 

 

“He seems like a good guy,” Emma offers, panting a little as she goes down for another round.

 

“He is. He really is.”  _ Mostly _ , she thinks, and to her chagrin, she’s suddenly spilling a dozen frustrations from her youth, from when Mother was in control and Daddy had loved her but never enough to stop Mother. Emma stops doing sit-ups and sits against the couch instead, her hand resting on Regina’s knee and her eyes trained on Regina’s face.

 

There is something happening between them, something that absolutely  _ can’t _ , and every day that they work on the giveaway, it only gets worse. Regina is growing more comfortable with Emma, more accustomed to seeing her– in her apartment, eating her food, tackling every issue they have with single-minded determination– when she’d expected to tire of Emma, to at least be more irritated and less  _ infatuated _ with her. 

 

The thought crosses her mind, for an instant, words that can never be unthought.  _ I want to be doing this with her for a long time more _ . Regina had thought that all this proximity to Emma might disabuse her of the notion that Emma might be suited to her. Instead, it only seems to drive it home even more.

 

The auction arrives, faster than Regina had anticipated it weeks before. The weeks had flown by with Emma’s smile and their shared determination, and their impossible task is about to become the whole campaign’s once more. The auction is scheduled for a Sunday, and so her last day working alone with Emma is the Friday before, the two of them cooking together and arguing out some last-minute details with the vendors before they’re, abruptly, out of things to do.

 

“We were so much more productive here than we ever are in the office,” Emma says ruefully.

 

Regina arches an eyebrow. “The office is distracting. We thrive under stress.” They both do. It’s a wonder they haven’t torn each other apart during the past few weeks. “Now, all we need are those permits.” 

 

“Right.” Emma grimaces. “Look, I don’t want you anywhere near Locksley. But he’s not an idiot. He knows how bad it’ll be for him if I speak to him and he refuses to help us with Scarlet–” 

 

“I don’t want you to go to him,” Regina says, and she can feel the discomfort caught in a bubble, expanding in her chest. “I don’t want to…I don’t want him to be a part of any of this anymore. We can do this.” 

 

Emma stares at the flier, open on the screen with a date proudly listed, and she says, “I don’t know how. Not with Scarlet standing between us and those permits. It’s not  _ fair _ . We’ve done everything by the book. He has  _ no right _ to do this to us.” She sounds almost whiney, and Regina is sure that it’s because of the sheer injustice of Emma actually going about something in the right way and still failing. 

 

She says mildly, “You’ve never been much for  _ by the book _ .” She means it to be a tease, gentle as she feels around Emma these days, but Emma stops what she’s doing and regards her seriously.

 

“Maybe,” she says, “That’s the problem.”

 

The auction is a modest success, not nearly as memorable as their last event but a quiet affair that raises some good money. There are more than a few people milling about who seem to have come only to eyeball Regina, and she stands straight and smiles often, puts two decades of training to good use and is the model politician.

 

Emma is distracted during the auction, coordinating but glancing about until a woman Regina recognizes from the country club saunters over to her. “There you are!” Emma says happily, and the woman hooks her arm over Emma’s and smiles at her. “Did you make it for the speech?”

 

Regina stares. Emma is grinning at this woman, turning up the charm and effusive as she shows her around the area. She’s enthusiastic, glued to the woman for the duration of the event, and Regina has to hold back a glare. Who the hell is this woman? Where had she  _ come  _ from? Had Emma invited her? Is Emma making friends in town, somehow, between work and their after-work project?

 

But there are no answers forthcoming, and Regina scowls and pastes her smile back on her face. Emma’s  _ taken _ , anyway, by her own stepbrother, and there’s nothing wrong with her looking out for their relationship. Neal must see the way that Emma’s chatting up this woman– but Neal also thinks that Emma is  _ straight _ , so–

 

The crowd is dissipating as Regina is lost in thought, and a gentle nudge from Jacinda is enough to jolt her back to the present. Regina smiles again, bids farewell to a few of the more influential auction-goers, and turns to find herself face-to-face with Emma and her new  _ girlfriend _ . “Oh,” she says, and Jacinda nudges her again. Regina forces a smile. “Hello. It’s nice to meet you.” 

 

“You, too,” the woman says, eyes sweeping over Regina coolly. She tilts her head, studying Regina again. “I’m voting for Jones,” she says, but there’s no venom behind the announcement. It’s simple, clear, and it doesn’t have Emma recoiling. “His interests are my interests. I have no desire to see this town equalized at the cost of my wallet.” 

 

“Maybe I can talk you out of it,” Regina suggests, disliking her even more.

 

The woman shakes her head. “Hardly,” she says, and she assesses Regina again. “Though, I must say, you aren’t not the worst opponent he could have. You deserve a fair chance,” she decides, and Emma’s smile blooms again.

 

Regina is beginning to feel very lost, and very irritable about it. “Thanks for your approval,” she says, a touch of sarcasm to her voice. Emma gives her a warning look. Regina swallows, guilty, and says, “I hope you’ll reconsider.” 

 

“Doubtful,” the woman says. “But I can get you what you need.” She unhooks her arm from Emma’s, sashaying toward the exit, and Emma exhales as Regina stares after her.

 

“Who the hell was that?” 

 

“Ana,” Emma says calmly. “Ana Scarlet.” Regina looks at her, startled. Emma shrugs. “I called her yesterday and invited her to the auction. I thought it was worth a try. She doesn’t even like Locksley.” She grins, bumping her shoulder against Regina’s. “My way of doing things, yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Regina echoes, and she gazes after the woman, then back at Emma, shaking her head wonderingly. “You’ll win anyone over through sheer force of will, won’t you?” Emma doesn’t win fans like Mary Margaret, with her easy likability, or like Jones, who flirts and smirks and counts on his charm to carry him through. Emma makes friends by being herself, earnest and honest and determined to do the right thing, and even their opponents can’t help but be moved by her.

 

“I won you over, didn’t I?” Emma says, and it’s self-conscious, an awkward little laugh accompanying it.

 

Regina smiles, easy and cool and concealing so much of what she wants to say with a sly, “I haven’t decided yet.” 

 

Emma throws her head back and laughs as she walks away, golden hair lit against the setting sun and her swagger as attractive as ever. Regina watches her, her heart thumping against her chest, and Jacinda murmurs, “You’re going to break your own heart if you keep doing this to yourself, you know.” 

 

She sounds disapproving and a little bemused, and Regina sighs, “I know,” she says, and she watches Emma from where she’s standing at the parking lot, quiet regret as acute as aching need.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all so _wonderful_. I've been in a bit of a funk, but I didn't want to go a posting day without putting this out for you!! Thank you for all your casual and not-so-casual nudges today, lol, you've been too good to me and I'm so grateful  <3

**AUGUST 23**

_ 74 Days Until the General Election _

 

The preponderance of purple is  _ amazing _ . The campaign team has been revived with their new, chosen candidate, and there’s been a surprising windfall of donations with the announcement that Regina will be replacing Robin. They’ve gotten new shirts made, have put up signs throughout the park, and you can’t turn without seeing their new trademark purple and gold.

 

Emma is  _ living  _ for it. She wears a shirt that reads  **_REGINA MILLS: LET’S TAKE BACK STORYBROOKE!_ ** and weaves through the crowd, her arms full of boxes to set down on different tables.

 

It’s the back-to-school giveaway, Emma’s baby project and their first real accessible one since the change in candidate, and it is  _ packed. _ Emma sets down her boxes with a huff, spreading them out across the table. “Pencils, pens, erasers,” she says, pointing at each one in turn for their volunteers at the table. “No more than three per person. This place is much busier than we thought it’d be.” 

 

Beside her, Mulan sets down a box of notebooks and another of folders with no sign of exertion. “Two per person,” she says, patting the campaign logo printed across each one. “Jacinda is already getting more printed and delivered here.” 

 

“Hopefully it’ll be enough.” 

 

Mulan shrugs, grinning. “People want to see Regina in action. And free school supplies is a coup. I’ve already stocked up for myself and saved a good twenty bucks.” She snags another pen, slipping it into her pocket, and says, “Plus, this is a full-day activity for a lot of parents.” 

 

“Yeah.” Emma looks around, satisfied. With Will Scarlet’s surrender, they’d rented a few moon bounces and a carousel, and there are various fresh fruits and ices being distributed at the other side of the park. They’d also set up a few folder decorating and face painting tables, and Regina had done some negotiating with her family’s stables and gotten them pony rides as well. It’s  _ fun _ , the kind of carnival that kids love, and it’s been a rousing success already. “I’m going to go get more folders.”

 

“Why don’t you mingle?” Regina says from behind her, and Emma jumps, her heart beating just a hair faster now that Regina’s in her vicinity. “Win us some supporters in the younger generation.” She’s wearing a pantsuit without the new campaign tee. They’d decided that the candidate would go without the tee. Right now, they need the town to take Regina seriously as a mayoral contender.

 

There is something else entirely to seeing Regina in a suit that has Emma gulping. It’s dark blue and perfectly tailored, and there’s a tight waistcoat over an open blouse. She looks very professional. She also looks  _ hot as fuck _ . How in the  _ world _ had Emma ever believed that she could be straight when just a look at Regina is enough to leave her mouth dry and her eyes wide?

 

“I,” she says, and tries again, licking dry lips. Regina’s eyes flicker to them, and Emma feels a little faint. “I’m not good with kids,” she manages, remembering the topic. The weeks they’d spent together have had their effect on Emma, and she’s hopelessly enamored again.

 

Regina’s eyebrow rises. “Please. You  _ are  _ a kid,” she says, nudging Emma. Her hand lands on Emma’s arm, warm against her skin, and Emma breathes in and out, her heart racing. “Go ahead,” she teases. “I know you want to be on that moon bounce.” 

 

Emma scoffs. “I do not.” 

 

“Even the one with the slide?” Regina prods her mischievously, her hand still squeezing Emma’s arm. “You aren’t thinking about going down that one head-first right now?”

 

Regina knows her  _ maybe  _ a little too well. Unless… “Maybe. But so are you,” she challenges, and is delighted to see a hint of dark bronze on Regina’s cheeks. “You are! I’ll go if you do.” 

 

“I’m supposed to be  _ professional _ , Emma,” Regina says with a long-suffering sigh. “I can’t be–” 

 

Emma grins. “I  _ will  _ get you on there,  _ Madam Mayor _ ,” she says, and she watches with deep satisfaction as Regina’s flush grows. “I guess I should test it out. Only the best for our future Mayor Mills.” She takes off for the bounce slide, waiting patiently on line as the kids around her look at her warily. “Hey, are you voting for Regina Mills?” she asks one of them, who’s wearing a dozen of their campaign stickers all over her shirt. “We could use your vote.” 

 

“I don’t  _ get  _ to vote,” the girl says crossly. She looks to be eleven or twelve, and she has a sparkly R painted onto her dark cheek. “It’s undemocratic.” 

 

“Ah, but you have the  _ real  _ power,” Emma tells her very seriously. “You know what the adults in your house might do with a little extortion?” The girl nods thoughtfully. Emma winks at her. “I said nothing,” she says, turning away.

 

“I want a Regina t-shirt,” another girl puts in, pouting at Emma.

 

Emma pats her shirt. “You’ve gotta be a  _ huge  _ Regina fan to get one of these. You know how many stickers I had to wear before I got a shirt?” The kids on line stare at her uncertainly, as though they can’t tell if she’s serious or not, and she amends, “The shirts are running a little late. But stick around, they’ll be here soon.” 

 

“Regina’s so  _ cool _ ,” the first girl says, sighing dreamily. “She’s gonna be the first girl mayor in Storybrooke history.” 

 

“She’s Latina,” another girl says importantly, touching her own brown skin and beaming. “The first  _ Latina  _ girl mayor. And she’s so pretty.” 

 

Emma grins at them.  _ Yeah,  _ maybe she can be okay with these kids. “She really is,” she agrees, sighing wistfully with them. “And she sure can wear a suit.” 

 

She earns a doubtful look from the girls. “I liked that dress she wore on TV?” one of them offers. 

 

“Right. Me, too,” Emma agrees hastily. “So, the first official Regina Mills fanclub, huh?” 

 

Undemocratic Girl snorts. “Yeah, right. There are, like, six of those now.” Emma bites back a startled laugh. “We have the  _ best  _ campaign this year. A movie star and  _ Regina _ .” 

 

“Movie star?” Emma echoes, brought back down to earth in the most unpleasant of ways. “Come on, guys. He barely made it on Broadway. He isn’t anyone.” 

 

“He’s  _ hot _ ,” says the girl who’d liked Regina’s dress. She sighs dreamily. “One time I saw him at the diner and he called me pretty.”

 

Another girl offers, “I have his poster on my wall.” 

 

Undemocratic Girl narrows her eyes at them. “I have Regina’s picture on  _ my  _ wall,” she says.

 

“Nice.” Emma high-fives her. “Hey, I’ll race you up.” Their group is allowed into the bounce slide, and they scramble up the blown-up rungs of the ladder, pushing and shoving until Emma tumbles down the ladder a number of times. She climbs up behind them, swinging up easily behind the others, and flies down the slide on her stomach with a little girl perched on her back. 

 

“Again!” the girl demands, and Emma is pushed back onto line with another crowd of kids to talk up, then another, until it’s been a half hour and every single kid on line is singing Regina’s praises.

 

She extricates herself from them at last, wandering through the tables to keep an eye on their guests. Everyone seems fairly happy, short of the parents negotiating for extra folders at the giveaway tables. Regina is sitting with a throng of kids around her, helping a boy make a big glittery initial on his folder. Beside her, a girl has slapped a sticker with Regina’s face onto her folder, and she’s using the glitter glue to carefully trace a large heart around it.

 

Roland Locksley is sitting opposite Regina, Marian bending over his project, and she looks up to say something to Regina. Emma watches them with some relief, glad that they’ve made an appearance. Robin is nowhere to be found. 

 

“They look happy,” Jacinda observes from beside her. “The shirts are here,” she adds, jerking a thumb to the small truck in the parking lot. “I thought you’d know where you want them.”

 

“Yeah,” Emma agrees. “We have a lot of kids looking forward to getting those shirts. Regina’s really a hit with the younger generation.” 

 

“Shame they can’t vote,” Sabine says, a hand landing on Jacinda’s back as she appears beside them.

 

Emma grins. “I’ve heard that described as undemocratic,” she says. 

 

“If nothing else, they’ll push their parents to vote. That’s a win for us,” Sabine says, watching the crowd around Regina. Regina with kids is always a beautiful thing to behold. She speaks gently to them, her smile soft and her eyes warm, and the kids soak it up and lean in, lobbying for a chance to speak with Regina, desperate for her warmth to rest upon them. “Look at her go,” Sabine says, shaking her head. “She’s exactly the kind of mayor that could transform this town. We just have to make everyone believe that.” 

 

“I think we’re well on our way,” Jacinda says thoughtfully. “That reminds me. Are we on for tomorrow night?” 

 

Sabine bobs her head as Emma eyes them curiously. “Marian is in,” she says. “Regina will need some work.” 

 

“Work for what?” Emma asks, and both Sabine and Jacinda jump as though they’d forgotten that she’s there. “What do you two have planned for tomorrow night?” 

 

“Just a night out,” Jacinda says, cagey. “There’s a club out of town where no one will recognize Regina. I thought she might need a breather from all the campaigning. She’s been going at this for months without stopping to have  _ fun _ , you know?” 

 

There’s a connotation to that  _ have fun _ that leaves an unpleasant pit in Emma’s stomach. “Have fun,” she echoes.

 

“Get out some of that tension,” Sabine drawls. “Get casually laid. I’ve never seen a woman who needs it more.” She smirks. “You should see her after she’s gotten some. She’s barely recognizable.” 

 

“Oh,” Emma says, her stomach still twisting, and she puts on a brave face. “Yeah, of course. Count me in on tomorrow night, too.”

 

Jacinda snorts. “ _ You _ are not invited,” she says, and her apologetic smile isn’t enough to mitigate the sting that comes with that. “Look, Emma,” she says, lowering her voice. “I like you. I really do. And I think…” She sighs. “It doesn’t matter what I think about the two of you. You’re with Neal, aren’t you?” 

 

Emma doesn’t respond for a moment, glancing out at the park until she finds Neal. He’s chatting up some of the men, gesturing toward Regina with an earnest look on his face, and Emma touches her necklace and ponders, for a bit, what all of this means.

 

Regina could crook a finger and Emma knows uneasily that she would come, would forget everything but Regina and get lost in her. But Regina  _ won’t _ crook that finger. Regina would rather teach Neal the right words to say and send gifts through him to charm Emma. Regina and Emma would never recover from Emma breaking Neal’s heart.

 

And Neal’s a good guy. He’s  _ comfortable _ , she’s always known that about him. There has never been any great attraction between them, but they care about each other, are fond of each other, are friends along with this sort of low-pressure dating. Regina is off-limits, and Neal might not make Emma’s heart lurch and sing, might not make her skin burn or her eyes scorch, but he’s  _ good _ . And that’s rare enough that she can appreciate him for who he is.

 

“Yeah,” Jacinda murmurs, and she sounds sad at what she’s seen written across Emma’s face. “The thing is…it was one thing when Regina was running the campaign. But she’s  _ living  _ it now. This is  _ her  _ campaign. And she can’t spend it hung up on her stepbrother’s girlfriend. She needs a night without you around to move on and have some fun.” It’s gentle but firm, and Emma looks down, touches the necklace hanging over her shirt and feels as though she might cry.

 

“Hey,” Jacinda says, and she puts a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about this. I just…I have to do what’s best for Regina, you know?” She’s watching Emma finger the necklace, too, with a knowing look as though she knows exactly who had gotten it for her. 

 

Emma manages a smile, letting her hand fall from the necklace. “Yeah,” she says. “I get it. I’m glad Regina has a friend like you,” she admits, and she swallows back heartbreak and clears her throat instead. “I…I’d better go get those shirts.” 

 

“Emma,” Sabine says, but Emma takes off away from them, the air too claustrophobic, too heavy with all the feelings she isn’t supposed to have. The very idea of Regina going to a club– dancing with other women, kissing other women, someone else standing opposite her like Emma had on the night she’d found out about the necklace–

 

She feels sick. She blinks hard, breathes in a shuddering breath, and ducks into the trunk of the truck that had brought the rest of their supplies, leaning against the wall of the truck and forcing herself to calm down. What else was going to happen? Of course Regina isn’t going to stand around forever for tension-fraught exchanges and fleeting touches. They aren’t having an  _ affair _ behind Neal’s back. They can’t be those people.

 

She has to calm herself and come back down to earth. She has to…

 

There’s a movement on the other side of the trunk, and Emma blinks. “Hey,” she says. “Hey!” 

 

A woman is in the truck with her, fair-skinned and unfamiliar, picking up t-shirts and holding them to her chest speculatively. “What do you think you’re doing here?” Emma demands, taken aback. “Three of each per customer means three of each per customer, so if you thought you could score a few extra notebooks–” 

 

Her voice trails off. The woman is eyeing her, more amused than intimidated, and Emma says, discomfited, “Hey. Get  _ out _ . This is trespassing, and we have the sheriff patrolling the park right now–” 

 

The woman scoffs. “Oh, yes, I’m terrified of our hapless sheriff,” she says, settling on a shirt with a satisfied noise. “Whatever will he do to me?” 

 

Emma stares at her, absolutely lost as to how she’s supposed to handle this stranger. “Who are you?” she asks finally, her brow furrowed and her hands clenching into fists.

 

The woman winks at her, stepping down from the trunk. “Ta, now,” she says, slipping away, and she’s gone before Emma can follow after her.

 

Emma sighs, instead tackling the mess of unfolded tees that the woman had left behind. She can wonder about intrusive locals later, once the event has reached its conclusion. For now, she has work to do.

 

This event is a  _ success _ , and she’s going to keep it that way.

 

* * *

 

“I want the other sticker,” the boy beside Regina says, his outthrust lip beginning to waver. “I don’t want  _ words _ . I want the ones with the picture.” 

 

“We will get you a picture sticker,” Regina says firmly, facing the boy and waiting until he meets her gaze. “There are more on the second table. Peter, would you mind–” 

 

Peter raises his voice. “Someone get this boy a sticker with the candidate on it!” he bellows, and a half dozen volunteers make a beeline for the new boxes of stickers. They return with a pile of stickers, and Regina passes one to the boy and puts another on his shirt. He beams at her, a gap-toothed smile that melts her heart.

 

She’s never had any younger siblings around, any children in her vicinity aside from Roland, recently. Still, there is something about children that makes her go soft, that makes her want to be someone gentler and more lovable.

 

_ So many  _ of these children have opted for stickers of her as the centerpiece of their folder decorations, a smiling Regina with the caption,  **_ARE YOU READY TO TAKE BACK STORYBROOKE?_ ** Regina remembers Mary Margaret insisting that her students had wanted to write about Regina Mills, Storybrooke politician, and wonders if she might have been telling the truth.

 

She brushes that thought aside and focuses on the child opposite her, who is hitting the end of a glitter glue in a vain attempt to dislodge the rest of the glue. “Try the purple,” she suggests, passing her a new one. “Are you looking forward to school?” 

 

The little girl bobs her head, silent, and Regina prods, “What grade are you in, sixth? Fifth?”

 

The girl giggles despite herself. “ _ Kindergarten _ !” she corrects Regina. “I’m going to a big school!” 

 

“Storybrooke Elementary,” Regina guesses, and the girl beams. “I went there, too! Is Miss Moccasin still teaching there?”

 

“She is,” the girl’s mother says, watching Regina consideringly. “You know, my daughter is only five, but she still has to cross a street to get to her bus stop. We’ve called the school and they haven’t been able to help us. Something about the route being impossible any other way. I work late hours, and there’s a woman who does daycare next door, but she can’t come out to get my girl in the afternoons.”

 

Regina nods slowly. “Sounds like something the town should have taken care of,” she says. “I plan to have a very responsive team in office with me. I don’t want a child’s safety being compromised because of incompetence.” It’s still niggling at her, a reminder that even if she  _ wins _ , it’ll be months until she can help this girl, and she makes a mental note to talk to the school about this sooner, rather than later.

 

“Is school funding a priority for you?” another parent asks. They hover over their children, gripping their prized folders and notebooks as they watch Regina.

 

Regina catches her eyes and holds them. “Part of  _ taking back Storybrooke _ means that all funding is my focus. I think that the government is frittering away our taxes on overhead spending and little Band-aids instead of fixing any situation. Take the street in front of the elementary school,” she offers. “Every single time it rains, the whole block is flooded.”

 

“I have to send Keisha to school in rain boots all spring,” one father says grudgingly. “She came home one day with a soaked, moldy backpack.” 

 

“And what does the government do? Another drain was installed last year, but the backflow was even worse a few months later. The sewer pipes there need a complete overhaul, and the street needs to be repaired after the damage that the flooding has done.” The parents are nodding slowly. “So that means we need to divert some extra funding to the school once, and then we’re no longer wasting money on draining the water all the time.” 

 

The father still looks suspicious. “Where does the extra funding come from?” 

 

Regina has an answer for that. “It’s already  _ there _ ,” she says. “The government paid for that drain three times, twice to out-of-town companies who did half the job and then ran out of money because of wasteful spending. I want to hire locally where possible, and I want to hire people who are efficient and take their jobs seriously because I take my job seriously. Efficiency has to start at the top, and it hasn’t been until now.” 

 

The parents murmur, pleased with her explanation, and Regina says, her voice less clipped and professional, “And when we say  _ efficiency _ , we mean putting the littler flower sticker at the corner of the folder so you can still open it,” to the boy next to her. The boy grins, pressing his flower to the corner, and Regina moves on to the next child.

 

She removes herself from the table after a while, wandering through the carnival to chat with other constituents. Jacinda is snapping pictures of her as she maneuvers through the crowds, and Regina puts on the smile she’d practiced in the mirror this morning and poses, again and again. 

 

At events, running a campaign and running for mayor are two very different experiences, she’s beginning to discover. She never stops moving when she’s running a campaign, chats up the candidate and arranges the event and has her eyes everywhere at once. When she’s the candidate, she can’t look too preoccupied, and so she has to force herself into the present, as though she’s in the middle of a performance at all times. 

 

They haven’t rearranged the roles of her campaign team any more, except to give everyone a bit more to do, and Regina worries silently, avoids looking around but hopes desperately that her team is doing fine without her. Thus far, they seem to be doing an impressive job. The park is lively and enthusiastic, and the people are happy to speak to her. Their palm cards are going as quickly as the folders and pens, and maybe the children taking them aren’t voters, but it matters all the same.

 

She turns to the next constituent, smiling automatically as the woman begins a diatribe about the  _ criminal teens who live on her block _ , and then there’s a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” Emma says to the woman. “I just need to borrow the candidate for a minute.” She looks perturbed. “The strangest thing just happened to me in the truck–” she begins, and then frowns, glancing over Regina’s shoulder. “What’s going on there?” 

 

Emma is still on call to have eyes everywhere. Regina turns, squinting at the crowd near the volunteers giving out cups of watermelon at the other side of the park. “Did someone get hurt?” She walks swiftly toward the crowd, worried, Emma jogging ahead of her. Regina peers at the throngs of children and adults there as she nears. They don’t look unhappy. They’re laughing, grinning, showing off their shirts and notebooks with pride, and there’s something about the shirts…

 

She squints, remembers that the mayor shouldn’t be squinting, and forces herself to walk at a natural pace, smiling and greeting the parents she passes. Emma is jogging back to her, shaking her head rapidly, and Regina’s brow furrows. “What’s–” 

 

“Get out of here,” Emma orders her. “Go back to the other side of the park. You can’t–” 

 

But it’s too late. The crowd is shifting, and Regina finally sees who’s at the center of the throng. 

 

_ Killian Jones _ .

 

Fucking Killian Jones has crashed the event, and the people who had flocked to Regina are now circling him excitedly, procuring the closest items they have for autographs. And those items are, of course, the  _ shirts and folders with Regina’s logo. _ “You have  _ got  _ to be kidding me,” Regina mutters, glowering at him. Jones is beaming, shaking hands and kissing babies as though this is his event, and everyone around him is lapping it up.

 

She storms forward, Emma yanking on her arm and being dragged along. “Do  _ not  _ engage,” Emma hisses. “Oh, my god, do  _ not  _ engage with the opponent while he’s provoking you–” 

 

Jones sees them, his smile growing into a wolfish grin. “Well, well, well,” he says. “Her Majesty herself. Here for an autograph?” He snatches a palm card out of her hand in a swift movement and signs it with a flourish, kissing the paper and stretching it out to her. 

 

Regina knocks it to the ground. “I’m here because our school district is underfunded and can’t afford under the current administration to provide supplies to its students,” she says coolly, Emma’s hand still a warning on her arm. “I see you’re here to sign autographs. Tell me, is that what you’re planning to do as mayor, too? Scrawl your name on t-shirts while the town burns around you?” 

 

Jones scoffs. “The town isn’t burning,” he says, gesturing around him. “Look around, love. We have a beautiful, flourishing community, and you repeatedly offend them by insisting that they’re not good enough.” He shakes his head sadly as there’s a murmur around them. The people are watching avidly, waiting for an explosion.

 

With Emma’s hand still on Regina’s arm, Regina refuses to give him one. “This community is wonderful,” she agrees. “And they deserve more than the government that the Maine Americans Party has given them. Tell me, Mr. Jones, do you have a single policy in place for Storybrooke? Or are you just coasting on your party platform?” 

 

“Look at that fire,” Jones says admiringly. “So much righteous idealism.” He turns to their onlookers. “Isn’t she just precious?” he drawls, and Regina shakes with rage. “I can just see her waving picket signs in front of my office in January. At least the view will be entertaining.” He winks at one of the men crowded around them, then leers openly at Regina.

 

There are several giggles, and a few envious sighs. Regina’s eyes narrow. Emma’s fingers tighten around Regina’s arm. “I hardly think that you’re in any position to speak about January,” she says, forcing herself to speak in low, terse tones. “I will win this campaign because I know that the people are with me. The people want change.” 

 

“ _ The people want change _ ,” Jones echoes, mimicking her voice, and he gets a dozen scattered laughs for it. The kids are loving his winking-and-laughing act, and enough of the adults are grinning with him to make Regina’s stomach sink. Still, there’s a ripple of discomfort in the crowd, mostly from women who look less than amused at Jones’s mockery. “She really is a little dynamo, isn’t she? Cora’s daughter to a tee. It’s adorable.” He winks at her. “Much more pleasant to look at than stodgy old Mary Margaret Blanchard. I can see why Robin Locksley was so enamored with her.” 

 

Regina tenses, undermined again and gritting her teeth in an attempt to control herself, and Emma’s hand falls from her arm. She’s in front of Regina before Regina can speak, jabbing a finger at Jones’s stomach with force. “Fuck  _ off _ ,” she snarls, and a number of parents gasp and cover their children’s ears.

 

“Emma,” Regina says urgently, but Emma ignores her, shakes off Regina’s hand on her shoulder and spins around to face the crowd.

 

“This is who you want for your mayor?” she demands disbelievingly. “Some brainless celebrity who’s coasting on taking cheap shots at someone who  _ cares _ ?” There’s a murmur from the throng, but Regina can’t read it. “You’ve all been talking about the different things you’re unhappy with in this town  _ all day _ . And you’re counting on someone who doesn’t even take his opponent seriously to take  _ you _ seriously?” 

 

Killian Jones watches her, eyes glittering, and Regina is afraid that he’s going to say something more, something that will have Emma swinging her fists. “Aren’t you an ardent defender,” he says silkily. “How touching.” Emma’s eyes blaze. Regina tenses. Emma’s going to take him down. The event will only be remembered for  _ that _ , not the success it was, and she cuts in before Emma can say anything more. 

 

Eighteen years in her mother’s house have taught her a thing or two about power plays. “I hardly think anyone here believes that,” she says dismissively, smiling at the people around them. “Storybrooke knows what it needs. Though Mr. Jones here certainly is a performer. Maybe we can find a place for you with the Storybrooke Drama Club,” she says, a hand landing on Emma’s back to calm her. Emma is breathing hard, her torso rising and falling with each breath, but the movements are slowing as Regina speaks. “Who here wants to see Killian Jones onstage again?” she says, turning to the crowd.

 

There are a few cheers, a lot of smiles, and an overall air of relief as the tension dissipates. Jones scowls for a moment before the smile is back on his face, and he says, “I hate to contradict such a beautiful lass.”  _ Lass _ , he says, and Regina itches to punch him herself. “Though I promise you that I will make plenty of appearances as mayor.” He winks at the crowd, clasping a hand to his chest. “You’ll all get your fill of Killian.” 

 

He whips out his marker again, turning deliberately away from Emma and Regina, and says, “Now, who’s up for the next autograph?” A guilty-looking woman holds out her shirt, avoiding Regina’s eyes. 

 

Regina exhales, deep and frustrated.

 

* * *

 

“Well, this is a wash,” Emma mutters in Regina’s ear. Jones continues to sign autographs, larger and larger until their logo is all but eclipsed by his signature, and they continue to stand on the sidelines, unsure about what to do. Emma doesn’t know. Somehow, she’s pretty sure that there’s no handbook out there for  _ what to do when your opponent starts signing your giveaways _ . 

 

Regina sighs, shaking her head as the others begin to filter over to them. Neal looks ready to fight, and Jacinda has tucked away her camera for now. The woman who had sheepishly gotten her autograph first after the confrontation says, “I’m still voting for you,” to Regina. “My…my daughter’s just a huge fan…” 

 

Regina still has a stiff smile on her face. “I understand,” she says, and Emma can feel the tension in the hand still on her back. 

 

_ Fuck this _ . Fuck Jones, and fuck the way he’d shown up with his smarmy smile and treated Regina as though she’s a charming little distraction instead of a contender. Emma still wants to fight him, but the hand on her back is a warning not to start anything that might make this worse. 

 

Instead, she forces a smile of her own and says, “What if I coax him out to the lake? Just a little bit near the edge, and then…you know, a foot stuck out at the right time, and…” She finishes it suggestively, and Regina laughs, leaning against Emma for a moment, their shoulders bumping. 

 

Emma’s mind goes blissfully blank. There is something about Regina’s laugh that has her overcome, that has all her anger fading away into meaninglessness. She flushes, offering Regina a lopsided smile. “I’m just saying. It’d be a public service.” 

 

Regina rolls her eyes. “It’d be more scintillating than any of his Broadway run,” she says lightly. “And a lot more fun to watch. Though not quite as fun as that time you knocked him to the floor.” Her eyes are drifting, almost appreciative as they flicker over Emma, and Emma gulps. 

 

“You…were you  _ into _ that?” she says in a whisper, without thinking. 

 

Regina bites her lip. “No,” she scoffs. “Of course not–” 

 

“I’ll do it again. I’ll flatten Jones a  _ dozen  _ times, if you want. You know, some downtime for the candidate. So you can loosen up.” She’s reminded unpleasantly of Jacinda’s plan for tomorrow for Regina, and she swallows. “I mean, not that you  _ need  _ loosening up, or–” Despite herself, she’s inundated with a dozen images of Regina with another woman. Someone who looks a lot like that Mal woman, crooking a finger from across a club and Regina moving to her with the same flush on her face that she gets around Emma. Someone else kissing Regina, someone else  _ being  _ with Regina–

 

She hates this, everything about this impossible situation that they’re all trapped in. She’s never going to be with Regina, and Regina has every right to find someone else. Emma is floundering, uncertain of her place in all of this. Neal is…is a good guy, and she likes him, and he likes her. And that’s enough, isn’t it? Is it fair to Neal that she’s even…that she can’t stop thinking about his sister? Is it fair to Regina that she’s…that they’re…

 

She’s frozen in a rare moment of introspection, her heart aching, and she reaches up to touch her necklace in a habitual movement. Regina’s eyes flicker with quiet pain as she sees it, and Emma wants to demand  _ answers _ , to make sense of whatever it is that Regina feels for her, to understand this woman who says  _ it never happened  _ and who buys her jewelry and who’d kissed her on her jaw when Emma had begged her to run for mayor.

 

It doesn’t matter, though. None of it matters, even if Regina really  _ does  _ feel something. That isn’t who they are, and Emma tugs her necklace once and then turns away from Regina. “We…we should probably start wrapping up the event–” she starts, and then spots someone who distracts her from whatever fumbling response she’d been about to make. “Hey. Her again,” she says, pointing at the woman pushing her way through the crowd.

 

“Her?” Regina echoes, craning her neck.

 

“Yeah, I saw her fishing through our stuff earlier.” She’s shoving people aside now, heading determinedly toward Jones, and Emma scowls at her as Regina’s hand falls from her back. “I don’t know what her deal is, but it was a weird–”

 

“Killian, darling,” the woman whines, throwing an arm around Jones’s shoulder and an orange mass of curls over hers. “I’m  _ bored _ . Can’t we go do something a bit less dull before dinner? You promised.” 

 

“Does he have a  _ girlfriend _ ?” Emma says disbelievingly. “Poor woman.” She glances over to Regina, who is staring at them, her face stiff and unsmiling. “You okay?” 

 

The woman turns, brightening at the sight of them. “Ah, Emma Swan,” she says, and Emma blinks dumbly at her. Her voice drops a decibel, the tone changing to something careless and cool. “Regina.” 

 

Regina inclines her head. “Zelena,” she says tersely. “I see Mother’s called you back to town.” 

 

Zelena–  _ Zelena _ , the infamous sister? Emma gapes at the woman opposite them in disbelief. She doesn’t look anything like Regina. She’s paler, with long orange hair and a smirk on her face that is far more put-upon than Regina’s. “I go where I please,” she says. “I just had to see your ridiculous little campaign. Mother is appalled.” 

 

“So appalled she remembered she had a second daughter,” Regina shoots back. Emma looks at her, startled by the harshness in her voice. Zelena recoils as well, then gathers herself.

 

“Mother has been humiliated by your antics,” she says, and she smiles again. There is something much like chaos glittering in her eyes. “She truly is done with you.” She tosses her hair, tweaking Jones’s ear. “Let’s  _ go _ , darling.” She pauses as Jones obediently extricates himself from the crowd, turning to offer Regina a wicked smile. “Send my love to Marian,” she says, floating off, and Regina glares after her and then spins around to the disappointed crowd, a smile pasted onto her face. 

 

“Sisters, am I right?” she says brightly, a born politician, and Emma watches her in mild dismay.

 

She doesn’t know  _ what  _ she’d just witnessed, only that it’s the opening salvo of something new. Emma has never quite gotten her finger on the pulse of this whole  _ Zelena  _ thing, the mysterious sister who doesn’t get along with Regina but who had also seemed protective enough that Emma had assumed she’d be on their side. 

 

She hadn’t expected her to be another of Cora’s strikes, and she’s bewildered by it.

 

The event is wrapping up. They’re nearly out of school supplies and tees, and Emma eats watermelon and watches as the last few kids are pulled from the park by their parents. The moon bounces are being deflated, the carousel packed up, and Emma suddenly remembers what she’d accused Regina of earlier.

 

She finds her talking to Marian and Neal in a low voice at the truck, all three of them disagreeing about something. “ _ Talk _ to her,” Marian is saying, shaking her head. 

 

“She doesn’t  _ listen _ ,” Regina shoots back, looking very frustrated. She seems almost relieved to see Emma. “Yes, what is it?” 

 

“You have an appointment,” Emma says. “Urgent.” 

 

Regina’s brow furrows. “I do? I don’t remember making any…” Emma looks at her significantly. Regina says, “Of course. My appointment,” straightening as though she knows exactly what’s going on. Neal and Marian look on in bemusement.

 

She strides with Emma toward the park, and only once they’ve put some distance between themselves and the others does Regina mutter, “Please tell me this isn’t about my sister.” 

 

“No,” Emma assures her, leading her toward the carnival area. “It’s much more important.” She gestures in front of them. The moon bounces have all been deflated, save for the slide that towers above them. Regina raises her eyebrows, glancing at Emma in disbelief, and Emma grins. “I know you want to. Everyone’s gone. No question of professionalism now.” 

 

Regina sighs. “Emma, I am not–” 

 

“I had to go up a  _ dozen _ times today for the campaign. It’s only fair.” The slide is high, maybe twenty or twenty-five feet up, with a ladder on one side and a slide on the other. Emma had thoroughly enjoyed every time she’d gone down. “You owe me.” 

 

“I  _ pay  _ you!” 

 

Emma scoffs. “Bet I can get up there faster,” she says, making a break for the ladder. 

 

Counting on Regina’s competitiveness is maybe not the wisest of moves. She’s two rungs up when someone yanks at her foot, sending her toppling down to the bottom of the ladder again. “Like hell you can,” Regina says smugly, climbing up the rungs easily as Emma gapes up at her in betrayal. 

 

“Cheater!” Emma accuses, climbing to her feet and then back up. She makes a wild grab for Regina’s foot and misses, Regina kicking her in the face instead. “Fine. I can do this the  _ honest  _ way,” Emma says, hanging onto the rungs as the bounce house shakes beneath them. 

 

The rest of the campaign team has spotted them, and Emma can hear their laughter and what sounds like a bet. “My money’s on Emma,” Neal says loyally as Emma reaches Regina, both of them scrabbling over the same rung. “Haven’t you seen her pull-ups?” 

 

Emma bangs her shoulder against Regina’s, trying to knock her off the rung, and Regina elbows her in the gut and scrambles ahead. “Regina’s scrappy as  _ fuck _ ,” Sabine objects. “I’ll take that bet.” 

 

Emma pulls with all the upper-body strength she has, yanking herself up two rungs at once, and they’re suddenly both at the top. “You are  _ not  _ winning this,” Regina says, eyes bright with challenge as she crawls across the ledge to the slide. 

 

“Yeah? How are you going to stop me–mmph!” Regina shoves her against the back wall and Emma grabs her, yanking her with her before she can get down the slide. Regina surges forward, away from Emma, and then they’re both tumbling over each other onto the slide, slipping down to the bottom as Emma laughs, gasping for breath. A part of her is certain that if she lets go, Regina will go flying, and she clutches onto Regina and holds on tightly, and they fall together to the bottom of the slide, Emma rolling until she’s on her back, Regina lying prone on top of her.

 

Regina stares down at her, breathing hard. They’re pressed together, Emma’s legs sprawled out and Regina at the apex of them, and Regina’s palms are pressed to the canvas beneath them on either side of Emma. She looks absolutely beautiful like this, flushed from their fall with hair falling on either side of her face. And her blouse is open enough beneath her waistcoat that Emma can see the swells of her breasts from this angle, when her eyes drift downward.

 

They drift upward again to catch Regina’s, and Regina licks her lips, her brown eyes almost golden as they reflect the yellow of the canvas. “It was a draw,” she murmurs, the words vibrating against Emma’s chest as she speaks.

 

“I can live with that,” Emma breathes. Her heart rate is quickening, a warmth deep in her core growing. She is suddenly uncomfortable in her jeans, and it takes all she has not to squirm up against Regina right now, to move to release this  _ something  _ building up within her. “I…”

 

“So do we all just keep our money?” Neal wonders from a few feet away. He’s watching them, a frown creasing his brow. “You two are…uh, getting kind of comfortable there?” He lets out a little laugh that sounds almost confused. 

 

Regina rolls off of Emma so quickly that she tumbles off the slide and onto the ground. She hits the grass and clutches her side, groaning, and Emma drops beside her. “What hurts? Are you okay?” she asks worriedly. 

 

“I’m fine. I’m–” There’s an instant of dark guilt and grief, and then Regina sits up, leaning back against the bounce house. “I won,” she says primly, sitting up straight.

 

“What happened to it being a draw?” Emma demands, outraged. “And  _ I  _ won! I got you on the slide, didn’t I?” Her heart is still beating too quickly, maybe even faster at the way Neal is staring at them. He gives a little shake of his head and then grins, his confusion clearing up. “Wasn’t it  _ fun _ ?” 

 

“I’d go on twice if I hadn’t just dislocated my hip,” Regina says wryly. “And I think they’re ready to deflate it.” She waves to the man in charge of the bounce houses, nodding to the slide. “But that was fun. Thank you.”

 

“You should have fun sometimes,” Emma reminds her. “Especially now that you’re running for mayor. That kind of puts a damper on your twenties, you know?” 

 

She feels a twinge at that, glancing over to where Jacinda and Marian are chattering happily in Spanish with each other. They’re looking at Regina and Emma with enough interest that Emma knows already what their topic of discussion is. 

 

Regina sees her watching and nudges her. “You heard about Jacinda’s big plans for tomorrow night, huh?” She sounds a little uncertain, a little guilty for no reason at all. “I don’t think I’m going to come along,” Regina says, shrugging it off. “It’s not really my scene.”

 

Emma shakes her head vigorously, her heart hurting at the movement. “No, you should go,” she says quickly, and Regina looks at her. 

 

“Really?” she says, and she still sounds tentative, reluctant.

 

“Really,” Emma says firmly. “You need…you need a breather, you know? From all of this.” It’s the right thing to say, the only words that aren’t incredibly selfish, even if it hurts to say them. “Jacinda’s a good friend. She’s looking out for you. And she thinks you could use this, regardless of…” She stops, unable to say the words.

 

Regina sighs, twisting a blade of grass between her fingers. “I don’t know if I need  _ that  _ kind of a breather,” she admits, and her eyes flicker to Neal for a moment, where he’s been distracted from them by a few of the volunteers. “I’d be…I’d be perfectly happy going on that ridiculous slide with you a few more…” She turns, her voice trailing off.

 

The air had been let out of the slide behind them, and it’s drooping already, sinking into itself at the center and close to collapse. “Oh,” Regina says voicelessly, and Emma winds her fingers into the chain of her necklace and hurts.


	18. Chapter 18

**AUGUST 24**

_ 73 Days Until the General Election _

 

“Hey,” Emma says, edging closer to Mulan’s seat. “How’s it going?” She and Mulan have some things in common, right? They both work out, they’re the two youngest members of the team, they both…work out…

 

_ Anyway _ . They haven’t spent much time together outside of hanging out with Ruby at the same time, and Emma is determined to change that. Mulan is pretty cool, if quieter than most of the team, and she thinks they could be good friends. 

 

Mulan, however, seems less than convinced. “Marian hasn’t texted me all night,” she says, her eyebrows raised at Emma and a flash of amusement in her eyes Emma’s only saving grace. “I have no idea how their night out is going, either.” 

 

“Oh,” Emma says, faux-startled, “That. I’d forgotten about that. I was just…you know…wondering how you were doing tonight. Weird how we’re all working late,” she says, gesturing at the room. 

 

Campaign headquarters are almost abnormally quiet at this time of night, when even volunteers stuffing envelopes are gone and they’ve lost half their skeleton crew to some  _ club _ . The last four people in the room have lingered, reluctant to go just yet, and Emma fidgets and eyes Mulan’s phone again.

 

Neal lets out a guffaw from across the aisle. “Em, if you want to be there,  _ go _ ,” he says, grinning at her. “I don’t think they intentionally left anyone out. Unless it’s…Latina bonding night or something. Plus Sabine.” He frowns, considering. “Is she Latina if her parents are from the Caribbean? Or is that–” 

 

Emma shifts uneasily, tuning him out.  _ No _ , as far as everyone is concerned, Emma wasn’t intentionally excluded. Everyone else here certainly wasn’t, except possibly to justify Emma’s exclusion. Which is rather unfair to Mulan, who is looking miffed at Neal’s comment.

 

“Sabine goes wherever Jacinda goes,” Tamara says, perched on Neal’s desk as she flips through a folder of campaign donations that they’re due to file. “It’s locals’ night. All of us out-of-towners get left in the dust.” 

 

“Mulan and I grew up here,” Neal objects.

 

Tamara rolls her eyes. “Yeah, and you’ve spent…what, six months here in the past seven years? And Mulan has one foot out the door. Those four are going to be in Storybrooke forever.” She considers. “Well, until Regina moves into that big house in DC on Pennsylvania Avenue.” 

 

“Damn straight,” Neal says approvingly. “She does deserve a night out before  _ that _ all starts.”

 

“A night, a morning…” Tamara says leadingly. “That girl  _ needs _ to get laid.” She grins at the others, her eyes settling on Emma’s wince. Her eyebrows shoot up once, then she’s smiling at Neal again.

 

Neal makes a face, and Emma thinks he’s going to object, but he says instead, “You’re so short-sighted.” He sighs suddenly, wistful. “Maybe she’s met someone worth keeping. I’ve been rooting for her to find love for so many years–”

 

“Okay,” Emma says, rolling her eyes. “Can we slow down? She  _ might  _ have met someone. She isn’t just– she isn’t just going to fall in love with her on the spot– if she even  _ exists _ –” Her voice is pitched a little too loudly, a little too defensively, and she cringes at herself and stops. “I mean, if that’s what she wants, then– good–” Neal is watching her, eyebrows raised, and Emma snaps her mouth shut.

 

“Oh, here we go,” Mulan says suddenly. “Marian finally replied to my text.” 

 

Neal leans forward, distracted from Emma’s word vomit. “Is it about Regina? Has she fallen madly in love?” 

 

“Has she vanished to the bathroom with a hot older woman, you mean,” Tamara says slyly.

 

Emma glares at them. Mulan says, perturbed, “It isn’t about Regina. Well, not exactly.” She turns the phone around to show them the picture that Marian had sent. “She brought company.” 

 

* * *

 

Marian has brought her sister.  _ Her sister. _ Zelena is lounging in the seat at their table with a drink in hand, smiling winningly at Regina. “Oh, darling,” she says, patting Regina’s shoulder. “I can tell from that scowl that you  _ need _ tonight. Your pussy is going to shrivel up and die if you don’t lubricate it  _ sometime _ .” 

 

Jacinda chokes on her drink. Sabine says, “Regina, I  _ like  _ your sister.” Regina tries very hard to tune her sister out. There must be some scientific advancements by now that can capture a certain voice and turn it to static. 

 

“Half-sister,” she says tightly. “We come from very different backgrounds.” 

 

“We shared a bathroom for twelve years,” Zelena scoffs. “I only picked up this posh accent of mine in uni.” 

 

Marian grins at her. For the life of her, Regina will never understand  _ that  _ friendship. “It’s not posh at all,” she says. “I’d take yours over  _ posh  _ any day.” Her face twists, leaving no doubt as to whom she’s speaking about. “He said he wants to stay in the neighborhood so Roland will have stability. Which–  _ fine _ . But he’s also leveraging that need for stability to insist that I publicly forgive him. For appearances’ sake. For  _ Roland _ .” She looks troubled. “Maybe he’s–”

 

“Roland needs the stability of knowing that his father doesn’t deserve to be his role model if he were the last man on earth,” Zelena shoots back, and okay, Zelena is decent to Marian more often than not. So maybe that’s why Marian seems to like her. “And Robin Locksley needs to  _ leave _ this town. Something else for Killian to take care of once he’s mayor,” she says breezily. 

 

The charitable feeling toward Zelena vanishes. “You’d really sell your last cup of water in the desert if it meant Mother might disapprove of you slightly less,” Regina says sourly. 

 

Zelena laughs, mocking. It doesn’t quite mask the hurt. As though she has any right to be  _ hurt  _ when she’d been asking for it. “Sorry for the honesty, sis. Would you prefer I don my old cheerleader uniform and do a  _ Regina Mills for Storybrooke  _ routine right here?” 

 

“I think I would,” Sabine says, leaning forward. Jacinda smacks her knee. “Seriously, though, can we just…cut out the campaign talk and get to the actual  _ point  _ of tonight?” She waves at the room, ignoring Regina’s glare as it fixes on her. “Eat, drink, be merry, get Regina laid.” 

 

“Hear, hear,” Marian echoes. Regina’s glare shifts abruptly to Marian in betrayal. Marian shrugs. “We have noble intentions. This is for the greater good of all of Storybrooke.” She gestures at the room. “And this place is discreet enough that you can get away with it.” Jacinda’s choice for the night is a club forty minutes away from Storybrooke, a place where they’ve been before without attracting any media attention. There are no eyes on their table, no recognition from anyone who’s glanced over at them over the past hour. 

 

Zelena lets out a wicked laugh. “Oh, is  _ that  _ what we’re doing here? I love it.” Her eyes alight on Regina with what could have been supportive, perhaps, on a different set of sisters. “Now, what  _ is  _ the flavor of the night? My sister likes them older, doesn’t she? Wispy little things with that distinctly domineering air–” 

 

“Not anymore,” Marian says in a singsong, and Regina looks at her in horror. “Now she likes them cute and awkward, blonde, and muscular.”

 

“ _ Stop _ ,” Regina says in marked dismay. Has Jacinda been telling everyone, or has she been that obvious?

 

Zelena swallows the last of her drink, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Do tell.” She considers for a moment. She’s never been as studious as Regina, but she’s had a certain gift for deduction, for understanding people’s little tics– and for lacking any social graces in how she deals with that understanding. “It’s the Swan girl, isn’t it?” she says, and she laughs hard, loudly enough that they attract some stares. “Oh, Regina, have you fallen for  _ Neal’s girlfriend _ ? There goes your favorite sibling.” She’s still cackling, gleeful and wild, and Regina grabs her arm and squeezes it hard. 

 

“Shut up,” she hisses. “Just shut up about it. It’s not that.” Except it is, and there’s no use denying it in front of four knowing, pitying gazes. “We’re  _ friends _ . We aren’t– there’s nothing between us.” 

 

“Just a deep, animal attraction,” Jacinda offers brightly, the  _ traitor _ . 

 

Sabine scoffs. “Please. Attraction doesn’t even begin to sum up what those two are doing with each other. What is it, the longest denial of orgasm in history?” Regina gapes at her. Zelena cackles again. “Do they have a section for that in the Guiness Book of World Records?” 

 

Regina throws a crumpled-up napkin at her. “She’s my  _ colleague _ . And it’s not…I haven’t fallen for anyone. See? I’m here now. Out looking for…a  _ date _ .” She wrinkles her nose just thinking about it. She’s no stranger to one-night stands, but the idea feels almost distasteful now, almost hurts her heart to contemplate.

 

Zelena jerks a thumb at a woman lingering at the next table, nursing a drink and watching Regina without a hint of bashfulness. “Well, then. On with it,” she says cheerfully. The woman smiles at Regina, slow and suggestive, inviting in that way that might have had Regina walking helplessly to her a year ago.

 

Now, she can only think of sheepish eyes that glitter, on occasion, with triumph and challenge. “Please,” she says disdainfully, turning away. “She looks like she’d eat me alive.” 

 

“I  _ know _ ,” Zelena says with a little growl, and Marian laughs while Regina looks at her with distaste. “Isn’t it just  _ lovely _ ?” She doesn’t wait for a response. “Well, if you’re busy mooning over Neal’s little toy, it’s a shame to let  _ that  _ go to waste.” She rises, sauntering to the next table, and Regina grimaces at her glass and ignores her determinedly.

 

“I don’t know why you even tolerate her,” she says to Marian. “She’s unbearable. How did you ever become friends?”  

 

Marian shrugs. “She understood a little what it was like to be rejected from our world, growing up. She wants to understand you.” She reaches out to squeeze Regina’s arm. “You just have to let her in.” 

 

Regina scoffs despite herself. There have been too many years of hostility between them, too long a time spent being pitted against each other for Mother’s purposes. Zelena will never forgive Regina for being Mother’s chosen daughter, and Regina has very little interest in playing at  _ friends _ with Zelena when she’s endured Zelena’s hostility for decades. “I just have to wait until Mother gets tired of this new power play and sends her back across the pond, you mean.”

 

Marian heaves a sigh. “If you only–” 

 

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Regina says, staring at her glass. It’s always been Regina’s  _ responsibility  _ to make overtures to Zelena, Regina’s responsibility to be the bigger person when Zelena had been the older one. There had been a time when she’d wanted nothing more than to have a big sister to share the world with, but those moments between them had been scattered at best, and had never ended well.

 

Now, she only hopes to get through their encounters unscathed. “Fine,” Marian says, tapping her fingers against the table. “Let’s talk about something else. How about this thing between you and Emma–”

 

“Wow, they’re playing my song,” Regina says abruptly, rolling her eyes as Marian laughs. “Jacinda, you owe me a dance.” She tugs Jacinda up, pulling her closer to the crowd of dancing duos. 

 

Jacinda has always been an impressive dancer, and she rolls her hips and winks at Regina, swaying and undulating against her. “I owe you a dance?” she says, raising her eyebrows. “Regina Mills, I’m a married woman, and I’m appalled at your insinuation–” 

 

“You dragged me here, you get me out of Emma-related conversations,” Regina shoots back. “Wasn’t that the point? Distracting me from…” Her voice trails off, reluctant to verbalize exactly what she needs distraction from.  _ Feelings _ , insidious and useless. And yet, the idea of moving past those feelings makes her feel sick as well, as though she’s left a piece of herself in Emma and she’ll lose it if she ever surrenders those feelings away.

 

Jacinda shakes her head, pulling back to look closely at Regina. “ _ Can  _ you be distracted?” she murmurs, reading Regina’s expression. “Regina, is this…if it were just a crush, then you could shrug it off and move on. I was hoping it was a crush. But you two are…” She sighs. “You need to talk to Neal. Both of you.” 

 

“I’m not talking to Neal. He’s in love with her!” 

 

“Is she in love with him?” Jacinda prods, and Regina remembers standing outside of Granny’s with Emma in her arms, remembers kissing her just a little too close for her conscience to be assuaged, remembers Emma whispering  _ I wish…  _ and Regina hurting desperately as she’d stopped Emma from saying something that they can’t walk back. “You know, I’m pretty sure that Neal doesn’t want a girlfriend who’s hung up on you, either.” 

 

“We’re not hung up on each other,” Regina says feebly. “And I’m not– even without Neal, I wouldn’t be interested in Emma. She’s nothing like the kind of woman I’m attracted to. You all said it before. She’s too young, too brash.  _ Terrible  _ at following directions.” Jacinda keeps dancing with her, the grin widening. “Too confident. Or…not confident enough.” Regina loses her train of thought just a little, confusing herself. “She wins over every stranger she meets, which really just means she’s flaky, doesn’t it?” 

 

“You usually say charismatic,” Jacinda offers.

 

Regina makes a disgusted noise, feeling on the verge of a frustrated yell. “She’s obnoxious even when we’re getting along. And she’s  _ so  _ pushy when she thinks she’s right. Also that look she gets when she’s mocking me and–” Her hands fall to her sides, the dance gone from her step. She yearns for the most ridiculous things, these days. All she can think about right now is how she craves…just  _ touching _ Emma, feeling Emma’s weight in her arms, being near Emma. It’s one night without her and she misses her desperately, regardless of how obnoxious and brash and confident and absolutely wonderful she is. 

 

Jacinda’s eyes soften. “Let’s get a few more drinks in you,” she says gently, laying a hand on Regina’s back. “See how you’re feeling once you’re a little more unwound. I won’t push you. But I do think…this can’t go on like this forever, querida. Something has to change.” 

 

* * *

 

Emma yearns for the most ridiculous things, these days. Right now, she’s eating dinner in the candidate’s office, getting sesame noodles all over Regina’s papers, and she can only think about how much she wants Regina to be sitting there across the table, rolling her eyes at Neal’s bad jokes and sharing secret smiles with Emma. She’d probably eat the noodles without slurping.  _ Asshole _ , she thinks fondly, and then glances over at Mulan for maybe the fortieth time in the past half hour.

 

Mulan has moved past irritability and long-suffering sighs and only shakes her head. “Here,” she says, picking up her phone to show Emma. Regina is in the picture, Marian’s lips pressed to her cheek. She’s flushed and grinning, tiny droplets of sweat on her forehead and the tip of her nose, and Emma has never found  _ sweat  _ this cute before.

 

She stares at the picture longingly, and Tamara says dryly, “Neal, how do you always manage to pick the girls in love with your sister?” Emma sits bolt upright, alarmed, but Tamara’s voice is light and Neal snorts.

 

“Only the ones with good taste,” he says. “Morraine  _ hated  _ Regina. Said I cared more about Regina than I did her. She was right, but…” His voice trails off, and they all laugh. Emma wonders, fidgeting with her necklace, if Neal cares more about Regina than he does her.

 

She doesn’t know what it means that she desperately wants the answer to be  _ yes _ . 

 

She slips away from the other three when she can, standing outside in the quiet Storybrooke night. She walks to the bench on the sidewalk, then turns, staring wistfully at Regina’s face in the posters they have hanging at the windows. 

 

She’s…this is a new level of pathetic, pining over Regina while her boyfriend is right inside and Regina is probably having the time of her life with girls much more attractive than Emma, much more available and much more like that Mal from the fundraiser. Regina has an efficiency kink a mile long, and the women she’d be attracted to would be high-powered wealthy women, the sort who look as good in pantsuits as she does and who run their own companies at thirty. 

 

Not Emma, who stumbles over her own feet too often for it to be a fluke, who has only managed to scrounge together enough money for car maintenance because she isn’t paying rent, who is coarse and graceless and would probably tear a pantsuit the first time she wears it. Regina’s going to run for  _ president _ someday. Everyone knows it. And she can’t run for president with a girlfriend unless the landscape changes in impossible ways in the next decade, but she  _ certainly  _ won’t be looking at people like  _ Emma  _ even for quiet companionship.

 

It’s a silly level of fantasy, thinking even about how poorly suited they are for each other, but staring up at the politician with the polished smile and airbrushed perfection in the window, Emma just feels horribly… _ grubby _ . Regina will find someone better– if not tonight, then on another outing. Regina will find someone whom fate hasn’t just thrust her with, who has more in common with her than  _ works on the same campaign _ . And Emma will be there, forcing herself to forget about the unforgettable and give Neal the relationship he deserves.

 

“Hey.” Emma jumps. It’s only Mulan, thankfully, who has followed her outside. “Sorry if I was giving you a hard time,” she says, leaning against the window. “I really don’t know anything more about what’s going on.” 

 

“It’s fine,” Emma says quickly. “I know I’m being annoying. I just…” There are no words that can handwave exactly how she’s been acting, and she flushes instead, her eyes flickering to the poster of Regina in the window. “I hope Regina’s having a good time,” she says finally. “And that she’s found what it is that she’s looking for.” 

 

Mulan gives her a small smile. “I don’t think she will,” she offers, and Emma closes her eyes and bites her lip, struggling not to respond. “Look, I know what it’s like to…to have feelings for someone unattainable,” Mulan volunteers tentatively. “And it sucks. It really does. But it gets easier over time, I think. It’s always better when you still get to be around the person, when you can…when you can still care about each other.” 

 

Emma looks at her, startled at this admission, then thoughtful. “You and Marian are good friends, aren’t you?” she says slowly. She is prone to abrupt and forward comments, and she has to hold herself back here, to speak as delicately as Mulan speaks to her. “You’re very close.”

 

Mulan exhales. “Marian is struggling with a very public divorce and raising a son as a single mother right now,” she says evenly. “She needs a friend. And she’ll have one.” 

 

Their eyes meet and hold, and there is an understanding between them, a quiet respect that they’ve developed for each other. Emma exhales. “Thank you,” she murmurs. Mulan is one of the few people on the campaign team who isn’t closer to Regina than she is to her, who is younger than Emma, and it feels…just a tiny bit less claustrophobic to have someone who understands. And… “Marian won’t be this preoccupied forever, you know,” she volunteers. “And she cares a lot about you.” 

 

Mulan offers her a sad smile. “Like a kid sister, maybe,” she says, shaking her head. “It is what it is. Not every relationship is meant to be what we build it up to be in our minds, I think. Not every relationship is meant to be a grand romance. Sometimes we can just…be content with something that is quiet and happy and good.” 

 

She looks at Emma as though she isn’t only talking about herself, and Emma wonders about it again, this ephemeral future where she stays with Neal forever and cares for Regina from afar. “You really think Regina and I could…” 

 

“I wasn’t talking about  _ Regina _ and you,” Mulan murmurs, shaking her head again. Emma looks at her for a moment, almost afraid to venture the question of  _ who _ ,  _ then _ –

 

And they’re thankfully interrupted by Tamara, sticking her head out the door with a grim expression on her face. “You two had better take a look at this,” she says, and Mulan and Emma exchange a worried glance and follow her inside.

 

* * *

 

Zelena tires of dancing with the woman who had been making eyes at Regina, but she finds another woman a few minutes later, followed by a number of men who had attempted to buy Regina drinks. “Typical,” Regina grumbles, sitting next to Sabine in a huff. “She’d dance with half of Maine if they showed any interest in me.” 

 

“Well, you’re not dancing with them, are you?” Sabine points out, and Regina has no response to  _ that _ . “Come on, Regina. You’re about to win an election and launch yourself into the rest of your life in the public eye. Live a little.” 

 

“Oh, yeah, because I was the life of the party until now,” Regina says, rolling her eyes. “I’ll be fine. This is wild for me.” 

 

Sabine snorts. “Okay, fair point. I  _ know  _ you can party harder than this, though. Didn’t you once set a car on fire during your wild little affair with Mal?”

 

“She certainly did,” Zelena says, swooping down on them. “It was the most likable she’s ever been.” She smiles at Regina, all teeth and a touch of malice. “Your poor  _ favorite _ sibling wanted to separate you two by force. Thought she was a bad influence on you.” She pouts for a moment. “Wish she’d been worse, personally.” 

 

“You know, you haven’t changed a bit from when we were–” Regina begins, but Zelena grabs her arm and pulls her up from her chair, challenging. 

 

“And you still haven’t gotten that stick out of your ass, but who’s counting?” Zelena says gleefully, and Regina’s eyes narrow. 

 

Zelena is moving with the music, dancing almost as though she’s daring Regina to join her, and Regina dances reluctantly, glaring at her. “Admit it, you’re just moping because your precious little  _ Emma Swan  _ isn’t here. You were the exact same way with Daniela.” 

 

“Don’t talk about Daniela,” Regina grits out, but there is no vitriol behind it. As traumatic as that experience had been, it had also been a rare time when Zelena had had her back. A part of her will never forget that. “I’m not  _ in love _ with Emma Swan.” 

 

“Of course you are,” Zelena scoffs, and Regina flinches at that stark statement, offered as fact. “I’ve been here two days and I can see that.” She lowers her voice. “You know you’ll never make it past mayor if you come–” 

 

“I know, Zelena,” Regina says wearily, too tired of this topic to lash out. “Can we please talk about something other than the girl who Neal is in love with?” 

 

Zelena throws back her head and laughs, and Regina’s head is just fuzzy enough from her drink that she can find the absurdity in the statement, in this whole ridiculous situation. She laughs with her, and for a moment, Zelena isn’t quite so awful, is something to laugh semi-hysterically with at the ridiculous mess that is her personal life.

 

Well, Zelena isn’t an awful dancer, at least. Regina matches her exaggerated steps, rolls her hips and moves toward Zelena and then back, their steps a curious mix of the ballroom dancing they’d grown up on and the club dancing that they’d learned in their teenaged years. Regina remembers, as Zelena tugs her hand and grins, sneaking out to a party down the block with her older sister, tagging along and being completely abandoned once they’d gotten there. She hadn’t cared, smug as she’d been to feel like one of the big kids, to feel like she really had a big sister. 

 

Now, she can feel that same exhilaration, the same desire for  _ sisterhood _ . She swings Zelena around, laughing, careless and finally holding onto that elusive bond. “You dance like a giraffe!” she calls out to Zelena, an old joke between them.

 

“You dance like a hyena!” Zelena retorts, and they’re both grinning, both caught up in what might finally be a very good night.

 

Regina laughs, twisting around to shake her hips to the sound of the music, and Zelena gives her a quick, sly shove. She stumbles forward, catching herself on another set of outstretched arms. 

 

It’s the woman who’d been eyeing her before, and she smiles, effortlessly seductive, and says, “Well, hello. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all night.” She runs a hand along Regina’s arm. 

 

Regina throws an alarmed glare at Zelena, who mouths  _ thank me later  _ and swans off to preen. She turns back to the woman, biting her lip, and comes up with no reasonable excuse to pull away. 

 

And it isn’t the worst thing in the world, dancing with someone this freely, without worrying about the world beyond them or the myriad of obstacles between them. It could be fun, even, a little distraction with a beautiful woman, with someone  _ attainable _ . Regina has been on edge for months, has needed someone to  _ relax  _ her, has craved…

 

_ Emma _ . Just Emma, and she closes her eyes and forces thoughts of the impossible from her mind, forces herself to smile and dance closer to the woman. She twists in her grasp so her back is to the woman, moving against her at an only mildly indecent way, and the woman’s hands go to her hips, holding her in place as another figure moves in close. Regina holds her breath, struggles to focus on what  _ is _ instead of what  _ can’t be _ , and opens her eyes.

 

There, right in front of her, is Emma Swan. 

 

She moves with the music, by far more graceful here than she’d been during the superstore fundraiser, but her expression is grim. “We tried your phone a dozen times,” Emma whispers, and her eyes flicker over Regina’s tight blue dress, over the cleavage that Regina knows is on display. 

 

Regina flushes. Emma swallows, and then slips her hands onto Regina’s waist, just over the other woman’s grasp. The woman’s hands tighten and Regina shifts forward, turning to shoot her an apologetic smile. The woman raises an eyebrow suggestively, and Emma’s hands move to Regina’s hips, tugging her closer against her front, one hand sliding across hips to splay across Regina’s abdomen. 

 

Regina lets out an involuntary sigh, her head falling back against Emma’s shoulder. “For appearances,” Emma murmurs, and she sounds breathless, a little faint at her own boldness. “I don’t want to call anyone’s attention to us, and I think inside the crowd is…safer.” They’re in the crush of the throng, enough people and noise and music around them that Regina can’t imagine that anyone could see them.

 

“What’s…” Emma is keeping a careful distance between them from the shoulders down, and Regina has to physically stop herself from grinding back against Emma’s body. She shifts, her forehead at Emma’s neck, and swallows. “What’s going on?”

 

“You’re being watched,” Emma whispers, her lips brushing the shell of Regina’s ear as she turns to speak. “Someone was taking pictures of you at your table. They were sent to one of the political blogs.” 

 

“ _ What _ ?” Regina tries to turn, but Emma holds her firmly in place, and all she succeeds in doing is rubbing her ass up against Emma. Emma’s hands stiffen and she lets out a tiny, startled groan. Regina can feel her cheeks heating up, her heart pounding, Emma’s hand almost possessive across her front. “What’s–  _ taking pictures _ ?” It’s impossible to think about political blogs with Emma pressed to her, letting out sounds like  _ that _ . It’s impossible to think about anything but letting Emma’s hand dip lower, but grinding up against her until they’re both capable of nothing more than choked moans, but seizing Emma’s arm and tugging her to the bathroom to have her way with her–

 

“We’re taking care of it,” Emma promises, her lips tickling Regina’s ear again. “Stay in the crowd. I’ll be back when we’ve made some progress.” 

 

Her hands slip off of Regina’s body and Regina feels their absence acutely, craves them so hard that she’s trembling with need, and she wants– 

 

Emma is gone, and Regina sways with the crowd, her senses finally restored. She slips her phone out of her bra, glancing around subtly, and googles her name for recent news. 

 

She finds it. It’s a damning caption on Twitter that links to the front page of one of the better political blogs, accompanied by a picture of her with her glass tipped back and her eyes half-closed. The damning caption reads  **_NIGHT OUT WITH REGINA MILLS – The pitfalls of running young candidates, illustrated_ ** . 

 

_ Young. Irresponsible. Unprofessional _ . The list of descriptors go on and on, and Regina grits her teeth and reads through them all.  _ Hardly suited for office _ is the one that burns most, and she finishes the article and examines the pictures that accompany them.

 

There are four in total, each more humiliating than the last. Somehow, the camera had captured Regina in her worst moments– drinking a little too enthusiastically, glassy-eyed and laughing, the single dance when she’d been just desperate enough to get away from their table and had danced with Jacinda beside it, rolling their hips together and undulating. Thankfully, they look just like two college students out at a party, putting on a show for everyone around them.

 

_ Fuck _ , they look like two college students out at a party. Jacinda had sworn that that club is  _ safe _ , is a place where no one would find her. She’d insisted that she’d even seen a few other familiar faces from Maine politics at the club in the past. There had been an unspoken rule about it, a  _ what happens here stays here _ that she’d trusted, and she’d let herself get truly wasted in an attempt to forget about…

 

She casts an eye out through the crowd, finds Emma hovering at the fringes of the dance floor, glancing around searchingly as Neal bobs and dances terribly with Mulan. Tamara is with Emma, a hand resting on her back as she peers around. They haven’t joined with Jacinda and Sabine yet, which is probably a smart move. If the photographer hadn’t seen Emma cut into her dance, then the photographer won’t know they’re looking for him or her.

 

If the photographer had, then, well…she’s already fucked. She moves with the crowd, her eyes scanning the photos again, searching for some clue as to the angle. One up close with her and Marian, one with her and Jacinda and Sabine. The dance with Jacinda, from the other side of the room, as though the photographer had been struggling to get a new angle… 

 

_ No _ . The photo had been after Zelena had danced away, after she’d moved to the other side of the room. Zelena isn’t in any of these pictures. And Zelena would absolutely sell Regina out for an approving smile from Mother. Zelena had taken the pictures, and Regina feels it like a hot bolt of rage searing her body from the inside out.

 

She shoves through the crowd, storms toward the table where most of her companions for the night have converged– Marian, thankfully, is nowhere to be found– and slams her phone down on the table. “Regina, what’s…” Jacinda lifts the phone, glancing at the page still open on the screen. “Oh, no.” 

 

“You did this,” Regina bites out, glaring at Zelena. “You couldn’t handle just…just one night without making a play for Mother’s attention. You couldn’t take one  _ single  _ moment without trying to  _ ruin  _ me.”

 

Zelena blinks at her, takes the phone from Jacinda, makes a show of looking down at the screen for a moment. Her eyes widen when she looks up, and it’s– it’s faux surprise, Regina  _ knows _ it, knows Zelena like she would anyone who’d ever positioned themselves as her enemy. “You think I took those pictures?” she says, scoffing. “Of course you do. What would a night together be if it didn’t end with you making baseless accusations?”

 

“Go to hell,” Regina spits out. She feels like an  _ idiot _ , like someone so naive to believe that this could have been a harmless night out. “I know it was you. Of course you’d–” 

 

Zelena glances down again at the pictures, and she looks up, suddenly outraged. “Oh, please. I didn’t take these pictures! How could you think I’d–” She flips the phone around to display the screen, the picture of her dancing with Jacinda. “You think I’d  _ out  _ you?” she demands in a harsh whisper. “ _ Me _ ?” 

 

Regina remembers, in a sudden flash, Zelena at Marian’s house after Mother had kicked Regina out, Zelena with a hand on Regina’s shoulder and her mouth opening and closing like she’d had something to say. She hadn’t said it, but she had gotten Mary Margaret put on probation for it, which had been about as close to affection as the sisters had ever shared. “I think you’d do whatever it took to get Mother to…what,  _ love  _ you?” Her fists are clenched, and she takes a step forward, eyes glittering with dangerous pain. “I know you took the pictures. You’ve always wanted me beaten, and now you finally have a way to–” 

 

“Go fuck yourself,” Zelena snarls, and she looks hurt and angry now, as hurt and angry as Regina is. “I  _ protected  _ you when Miss Blanchard– I  _ helped  _ you. And this is how you repay me? By accusing me of…” She straightens, eyes flashing. “You’re insufferable. And all those images are  _ true _ . You’re a  _ failure _ too  _ stupid  _ to think about appearances. Don’t you  _ dare  _ blame that on me.” 

 

“I know you,” Regina says furiously. “You help me when it suits you. You hurt me when you can. And you just…swoop in here the moment that I become the candidate out of…what,  coincidence?” 

 

Zelena huffs out a laugh. “Hardly,” she says. “Not everything in this world is about you, darling sister of mine.” She looks smug, as though she’s about to impart something damning. Regina tenses, ready for the worst. “Mother called me home,” Zelena says, raising her chin in defiant victory, “To make me the third partner at Gold-Mills Consulting.” 

 

Regina stares at her for a frozen moment, and Zelena pauses, pretends to think. “Wasn’t that the slot you’d been promised years ago?” she says suddenly, smirking almost unbearably.  _ Yes _ . Yes, it had been, though she’d never quite wanted it. 

 

Mother doesn’t apologize. Mother gives out orders and expects them to be followed, and Regina had known better than to defy them when they’d come before the Gold-Mills wedding. She had returned to Storybrooke, ready at last to face Mother, and she hadn’t expected any apologies. 

 

But still, she’d gotten one, in the form of a job offer, of all things. Mother had said briskly,  _ are you done hiding?  _ as though Regina had had any choice in the matter, but then she’d been handed a portfolio and Mother had mentioned casually, as though it had been anything less than a peace offering,  _ for when you become our third partner.  _ It had been her acceptance into the family once again, an overture when Mother never makes them. It had been the message that Regna’s sexuality wasn’t going to be the end of her daughterhood, and Regina had clung to it for the validation it had been.

 

And Zelena, of course, has no grasp why that job would have been important to her. “It’s quite a lucrative position, too. Mummy Dearest has been holding it for you for years, siphoning off money for your expenses.” She considers again. “I suppose she finally came to her senses and realized that you’re a spoiled college dropout who has done nothing but besmirch the family name. She’s cut you off.” Regina reels in place. The money isn’t an issue. She has a trust fund, enough that she’s been tearing up the checks on which she’s been getting her salary from the campaign, and she hasn’t used Mother’s money since she’d been eighteen. But to be  _ cut off _ – rejected as readily as she’d been after Daniela– 

 

“Imagine,” Zelena says, spreading her hands wide. There’s something hurt and unpleasant beneath her words, but they’re cutting, tearing into Regina with renewed force. “Regina Mills, having to hold down a job instead of coasting on the hard work that she  _ excoriates  _ her mother for. How very poetic.” 

 

Regina still stares at her, still incapable of moving, and her words emerge hoarse and vicious. “How does it feel to be picking up my leftovers?” Zelena flinches. “You’re nothing more than a punishment for me. Mother is using you to hurt me, and you’re fool enough to buy it. And you think that  _ I’m _ the imbecile here? Look at you.” She takes a step forward, feels fury and hurt mingle into a potent combination. “You’d still do  _ anything  _ to gain Mother’s approval. And she’s never going to see you as anything more than a tool to play with me.” 

 

“You’re full of it,” Zelena shoots back, and Regina shakes with rage and hurt of her own, ugly, cruel emotions returning. They had fought like this as children, had despised each other and had the unique ability to hurt each other most of all. “You’re sinking in quicksand and you have no one to blame but yourself. I’m not playing  _ that  _ game anymore. I’ve  _ won _ .” 

 

Regina barks out a laugh. “You’ve won nothing. Did you think I didn’t notice? You saw Mother’s plans for me and you’ve done everything you could to follow them, to hope that she might actually love you. Mother doesn’t love  _ anyone _ , you idiot. Mother will never love–” 

 

“Go fuck yourself,” Zelena grits out, and she whirls around, storming from their table and the club in a rush of fury. 

 

Regina watches her, fists still clenched, and turns her glare onto her onlookers. They turn away swiftly, except for Jacinda, who sits heavily at their table, and Emma, who is standing behind her, eyes wide and sorrowful.

 

* * *

 

A very distracted Neal has vanished into the club somewhere, and Tamara has gone to find him, leaving Mulan and Emma behind to notice when Regina and Zelena are making a scene. And at  _ that  _ point, there’s no reason to stay away.

 

Zelena had taken the pictures. Or she hadn’t, and Regina is wrong. She’d seemed genuine to Emma, who is usually pretty good at catching out liars, and Emma pinches her nose and doesn’t know what to believe, except that Regina needs desperately to leave this club before she has a breakdown. “Hey,” Emma says, and she reaches for Regina’s arm. “Let’s get you some air.” 

 

Regina opens her mouth, still visibly steaming, but then she snaps it shut, letting Emma guide her from the club in silence. There’s a rectangular concrete outcropping against the outer wall of the club that must be covering up a pipe, and Emma sits down on it, lets Regina stand with her arms wrapped around herself and her back to Emma as she stares into the night.

 

“I’m sorry,” Regina says finally. “I’m sure…that wasn’t the best way to deal with that situation. She isn’t going to take the pictures down.” 

 

“They’re already spreading,” Emma says, resting her head against the wall. “We’ve been keeping an eye on Twitter and Facebook. A few retweets, a few shares. The worry is that it’ll go viral without us doing any damage control.” She’d wracked her brain for something they could do to distract from this new scandal in the making, but there isn’t anything. Enough of their voters look at Regina as young and inexperienced already, and it’ll plant the seeds of doubt in others. “We’ll just have to keep doing what we’ve been doing until now. One isolated incident won’t define the campaign.”

 

“It’ll just make our job harder,” Regina murmurs, and she sits next to Emma, legs curled together at the ankles. “I just…Zelena tends to bring out the worst in me.” 

 

“Is…” Emma clears her throat. “Is losing that position going to be a problem for you?” She’s never going to understand the Mills family, but she knows the triumph with which Zelena had announced it, the way that Regina had been so shaken by it. “Are you…are you going to need a place to stay? Because Neal’s couch is pretty–” 

 

“No,” Regina says wearily, and she tilts her head and looks at Emma with such protracted fondness. “No, I’ll be fine. I wasn’t going to take the position, anyway. It was…just something for Mother to hold over my head.” She shrugs, apparently unworried, but for the furrow of her brow that gives her away. “I didn’t think that Mother would ever…” She closes her eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if this really is the right thing to do,” she whispers. “If I shouldn’t be the one to cause Mother this kind of grief. I wonder if I’m betraying my family and everything she’s done for me–” 

 

“Stop,” Emma says, horrified at the gloom that seems to envelop Regina. Regina bows her head, almost defeated, more affected by Zelena’s revelation than she admits. “ _ Stop _ . You can’t think like that. Your mom is doing this to manipulate you. Your mom has done more than enough to this town. She doesn’t get to make you feel guilty for fighting back. And she’s just pitting you and Zelena against each other again now.” Cora never rests. Emma loathes her for it.

 

Regina exhales and smiles at her, a little wanly. “Mother does like to play games with us,” she admits, her eyes somewhere distant. “She was already expecting Zelena when she met Daddy. She wanted to give her up, but Daddy persuaded her to keep her, that it didn’t matter, that he’d raise her like his own child. He did. Mother didn’t.”

 

“And she took it out on you,” Emma guesses. Siblings are a mysterious thing to her, something she’s only witnessed from the outside. Neal and Regina are so close that she hadn’t imagined the depth of Zelena and Regina’s acrimony.

 

Regina nods, then shakes her head. “Mother resented her for being there at all, for being some kind of  _ stain _ on the family. She would raise me up to make a point to Zelena.  _ This is what you’ll never get. This is who you’ll never be. _ I didn’t understand it until we were older and Zelena already hated me. And that was that.” She huffs out a laugh. “And the most ridiculous thing is…for a few minutes tonight, I thought we were actually getting along. And she was  _ selling me out _ .” 

 

She stops suddenly, wringing her hands together on her lap. “I’m sorry. It must seem…It’s very insensitive of me to whine about my family to you,” she murmurs, and her eyes slip to Emma’s necklace, to the snowflake that Regina alone seems to grasp the significance of.

 

Emma feels a warm flush in her chest. “Not at all,” she says honestly. “Your mother is terrifying.” 

 

Regina snorts. “She wouldn’t know what to do with you,” she says, and there’s that same fondness again, the warmth like a glow in Emma’s heart. “Not that I did, for a long time.” And now she smiles, and Emma is tongue-tied at how beautiful she is in the lights of the parking lot, her face bright and soft. 

 

She opens her mouth to try to say something, but she’s distracted by the sound of voices. Panic floods her suddenly. If they’re caught out here– if the photographer manages to catch them sitting tightly together, making eyes at each other–

 

But it’s only Neal and Tamara, walking together along the other side of the parking lot. Emma feels a flush of guilt, again, at something that she hasn’t done. Neal is tense and concerned as he paces with Tamara, heads close together like they’re whispering about something, and Emma can only hear snatches of conversation floating back to them.

 

From the bits she can hear, they’re talking about the blog post, and Emma shifts uncomfortably. Neal is worrying about his sister again, and Emma is…what? Sitting a little too close to her? What is she  _ doing _ ?

 

Tamara and Neal vanish back onto the side of the building, and Regina sighs. Emma leans back against the wall, relieved for reasons she can’t explain. 

 

Her hand is in Regina’s, and she doesn’t know how it had gotten there, if she’d reached for Regina or if it had been the other way around. Their fingers are twined together, curled into the other’s, and Emma looks at Regina’s hand and then up again, gathering her courage to lift their joined hands to the necklace hanging at her throat. “I know you…I know Neal got the necklace from you,” she says, and Regina’s eyes widen fractionally. “I just…I don’t understand. Did you…have it in your drawer for a rainy day? Just in case I was having my doubts about Neal?” 

 

She’s wondered about that, about where exactly it had come from, and she knows– she’s sure that Regina will lie, that the truth is something they can’t discuss.

 

But Regina shakes her head silently, reluctantly, her eyes fixed on Emma’s. Emma ventures, “Did you buy it for him?” 

 

“For you,” Regina whispers, and her eyes are hot and guilty, pained in a way that makes Emma regret asking the question. “Please don’t ask me why.” 

 

She wants to say  _ why? _ She wants to say  _ you’re a coward  _ or  _ we can’t do this _ . She wants to say  _ I need to know _ or  _ thank you  _ or something, anything that might move them forward. Instead, she says only, “Okay,” and cradles Regina’s hand in hers. 

 

Regina doesn’t pull away, only leans against the wall as their eyes lock and hold for too long. “What will you do after the campaign?” she says suddenly, and Emma looks at her in surprise.

 

_ After the campaign  _ is still a fuzzy, indefinable time. “I don’t know,” she admits, running through thoughts she’d never really considered. “I thought maybe I’d head out to Boston. Find an office position that’ll take me with this work experience, I guess.” She squirms in place, remembering her boyfriend and roots and what it means when they dig too deep. “And I can come visit anytime,” she offers, because that had been the reason not to return to Tallahassee. Regina Mills is too far from Tallahassee, will fade into a memory that Emma can’t let go of. “I don’t know.” 

 

Regina considers her, still with her gaze on Emma. She wrings her hands together again, wets her lips, says quietly, “Would you be my chief of staff?” 

 

Emma sits back, astonished. There are far more qualified people for that, even if Regina doesn’t choose to keep the administration in place in Town Hall already. Marian, she’d thought, once the dust settles from her divorce. Or Neal. Someone who knows Storybrooke and knows politics and understands all of this. Not  _ her _ , a nobody from the side of a road somewhere who’s been scrambling to keep up.

 

Her heart leaps at the thought of it. She’d be working with Regina every day again, be helping with all these policies that they’d crafted together. It’d be just like the month they’d spent on the giveaway every day. She’d have a  _ place  _ here, a reason to stay in Storybrooke, a chance to actually make a difference.

 

_ She’d be working with Regina every day _ . Her heart sinks, and she says, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Is it?” she asks, her heart thumping, and she turns to look at Regina with quiet anguish. She doesn’t know how much longer she can do this, remain in this impossible limbo. They’d danced together tonight, very briefly, and it had been enough to make Emma crave Regina even harder, even more desperately. 

 

Maybe Boston isn’t far enough. She swallows, looking pleadingly at Regina and hoping for any response, any hint that Regina is also at her limit, but Regina only looks pained when she says, “Yes. No.” 

 

“Yeah,” Emma murmurs, suddenly miserable. “I know.” 

 

She turns away from Regina to stare into the parking lot instead, to watch the headlights of cars as they bounce spotlights across the walls. A moment later, there’s a soft touch on her cheek, Regina guiding Emma back to her gaze. “We can find something else in town for you,” Regina whispers. “I have no doubt that you’d excel wherever you are.” She says it like she means it, like she genuinely believes in Emma, and Emma can’t bear it.

 

Her hand still rests on Emma’s cheek, caressing Emma’s skin with the backs of her knuckles, and Emma shivers, moving forward without thinking. Regina’s lips part, her eyes dark and wanting, and their lips almost brush before Regina pulls away. She blinks hard, and Emma reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind Regina’s ear, to stroke her jawline to her bare neck and collarbone. “Talk to me,” she begs. “Please. Tell me what– what you’re thinking–” 

 

She doesn’t know herself what she wants the answer to be. Regina shudders beneath her touch, and Emma is breathless at her own power here, at how much they can affect each other. But Regina says, “I can’t,” looking so small and vulnerable that Emma wants only to hold her. “I…” She gulps in a breath, and her eyes are tired, the events of the night weighing down on her. Emma doesn’t know how anymore can read a blog article and see Regina as  _ young _ when decades seem to settle onto her shoulders like a weight, when she has the face of someone who hasn’t been a child in a very long time. “I love my brother,” she says finally.

 

Emma sighs, her fingers trailing down Regina’s skin to the top of her dress, tracing the line of it until she’s dangerously close to Regina’s cleavage. She sets her hand onto her lap and says, defeated, “I know you do.” Emma loves Neal, too, though it pales in comparison with the depth of emotion that Regina can make her feel. And more and more, it’s beginning to feel unsustainable. 

 

Regina leans over again, and Emma stills, Regina’s hand landing on her knee. “I’m glad he found you,” Regina murmurs, her lips brushing against Emma’s cheek, and it lights up something in Emma, a strength and determination that she hasn’t entertained until now.

 

She  _ can’t  _ do this anymore. She can’t. And it isn’t fair to…to anyone, Regina or Neal or Emma herself, for her to be with Neal anymore. She knows she’s settling, accepting what is comfortable because she can’t have his sister. She’s known that for a long time, and she’d thought…somehow, it’d be okay. She would be what he needed and Regina will be  _ there _ and Emma will at least have a life where she can be happy, if not satisfied.

 

And it’s here, sitting on a pipe outside a crowded club with Regina’s lips on her cheek, that Emma knows suddenly that she won’t even be happy. Neal won’t be happy. Regina will be…

 

_ Fuck _ , she’d shuddered under Emma’s touch and Emma had only wanted to watch her tremble. Regina will never forgive Emma for breaking Neal’s heart. Regina will never look at her like this again, if she hurts Neal. Regina  _ buries  _ the women who hurt Neal.

 

She can’t believe that Regina will bury her now, but she knows Regina will never speak to her, will choose the last bit of family that she has over Emma. Which is  _ good _ , even if it’ll destroy Emma. It is how it should be.

 

She smiles at Regina, feels the warmth of Regina’s returning smile and stores it in her heart like a forest creature collecting nourishment before the cold winter. When the campaign is over, when Emma can leave safely without disrupting anything…

 

She’ll talk to Neal and then she’ll go. Far away, maybe farther than Boston, after all. She’ll keep her distance and let Regina rage at her and at least then, everyone else will have the chance to move on. Neal can find someone who loves him in the way that he loves Emma. Regina can…

 

Regina’s going to  _ kick ass  _ at being mayor and probably meet someone new whom she wants to be with without anything holding her back, and it’s exactly what she deserves. Emma blinks away tears before they emerge, and leans over to press her own lips against Regina’s jawbone, to taste her skin one last time–

 

“I sent a few more to you,” says a voice from behind them as the door opens, and Emma recognizes it at once and panics. Regina is already standing, eyes narrowed, and Emma stands with her, pressing her against the wall and letting her long curls fall around them. “Yeah, decent,” the voice says, and Sidney Glass steps out into the parking lot.

 

Emma leans forward, obscuring Regina from view, standing as close as she can to her. This is the part in all the action movies where the spies have to kiss to avoid attention, she thinks, an errant thought, but she isn’t nearly stupid enough to give Sidney  _ that  _ material. His camera is tucked under his arm, and she glances at him through her sheets of hair, watches him walk on without looking their way. “The first few pictures did the job, didn’t they?” he’s saying, sounding defensive. “Why do you need any more?” A pause, then a grudge, “Yeah, I guess.” 

 

Regina stands flat against the wall, breathing hard, her breath warm on Emma’s lips. Emma holds her hands to the wall from fingers to elbows, pinning Regina against it securely, forehead pressed to Regina’s. “Quiet,” she murmurs, and their chests move against each other as they breathe, Emma’s legs tangled in Regina’s and her thigh between Regina’s legs. “He’s almost gone.” 

 

“Sidney,” Regina whispers in horrified betrayal. “It was Sidney all along?” 

 

A car door slams, and Emma risks a glance backward for just long enough to watch Sidney jerk his car around and drive away, his headlights glancing across them for only an instant. Regina shakes her head, still at a loss. “Sidney,” she repeats, dumbfounded. “Sidney’s on  _ my  _ side. What did Mother do?” And then, another pause of realization. “Zelena didn’t…” 

 

They stand in frozen bewilderment, and Emma doesn’t pull away just yet, enjoying this brief, unplanned contact with Regina. Regina is silent, mulling over this new information, and Emma dares to shift so her hands are resting against Regina’s arms instead of the wall, breathing in tandem with her. It’s nice, nicer than it should be to be hiding against the dirty wall of a club, and Emma can feel a wave of melancholy at the thought of leaving Regina behind in November.

 

“You two having fun?” says a chipper voice behind them, and Emma stumbles back, alarmed. Tamara is standing with Neal, arms folded and eyebrows raised as she watches them. Neal is looking between them, the slightest furrow to his brow at Regina’s flush.

 

“Sidney was here,” Emma blurts out. “We saw him coming and– and hid–” She gestures helplessly at Regina, stumbling over the words until Neal’s curiosity becomes amusement at her stammering. 

 

“Really,” he says, teasing. “How very  _ romantic _ .” He wiggles his eyebrows at them.

 

Regina gives him a shove. “Don’t be gross,” she says, which is  _ rude  _ in less urgent situations, but she, too, looks more comfortable now. She straightens, snapping back into leadership mode. “Let’s go back inside,” she orders. “We’ll explain what happened and then head home. We have a long day of damage control ahead of us.” 

 

She turns on her heel and stalks into the club, the others trailing behind her. Neal slips an arm around Emma and murmurs into her ear, “I think my sister might have a crush on you.” 

 

Emma looks sharply at him, but he’s grinning, still blissfully ignorant. She snorts, forcing a smile of her own. “Please. She’d be a little easier on me then,” she says weakly.

 

Neal pokes her. “Don’t you know Regina at all? No, she  _ wouldn’t  _ be.” Emma rolls her eyes at him very determinedly and stalks after Regina, Neal’s laugh following her as she’s swallowed by the crowd.

 

The others are already gathered together by the table with Mulan as Emma approaches, and they turn to stare at Regina and Emma in confusion. “Emma’s here,” Jacinda says dryly, tilting her head. “How…unexpected.”  

 

“Something’s come up,” Emma says briskly, in no mood for more ribbing. “Check the first post on the  _ Maine Monitor _ site.” She hovers at the table as the others take a seat, waiting for them to see the blog post that’s been giving her a headache since she’d seen it. “I don’t know what we can do to respond to it without feeding into this fiction, but–” 

 

“I mean, is it really fiction?” Sabine says dubiously, looking at her phone. “It’s a valid topic to discuss. Small towns don’t have much power when it comes to statewide elections, and while cities have larger populations, the needs of rural areas kind of get steamrolled right over.” 

 

“What?” Regina asks, blinking at her in confusion. “No, the one above that article.” She leans over to take the phone, and Emma moves beside her to peer at it.

 

Her eyes widen. The article is gone. “Wait a second,” she says, snatching the phone from Regina’s hand. “What happened to…” She tries googling  _ Regina Mills _ and finds no references to their night out in the club. “That can’t be,” she says, bewildered. “I read the article. I saw it spreading across Twitter and Facebook. There has to be–” She checks Twitter, remembers that the pictures had been retweeted by Hans’s account. But there’s nothing there. “It was there. I swear it was. We heard Sidney  _ talking  _ about it.”

 

People had tweeted about it. There had been direct references and reposts of the article. But they’re all gone into the ether, vanished as though they’d never been there to begin with. “That’s impossible,” Marian says, peering at her own phone as though it might hold some answers. “How did every independent social media user delete it almost simultaneously? Are you sure they weren’t just retweets?” 

 

“Positive,” Emma says, looking to Mulan for support. 

 

Mulan nods, looking equally baffled. “They were there,” she confirms. “Why would the blog delete the post in the first place?”

 

“Did anyone make a call?” Jacinda wonders.

 

“Of course we made the call. They said no. Maybe they had a change of heart,” Neal wonders.

 

Tamara says, shrugging, “We got lucky. Let’s not question it too much or we’ll be dwelling on this for days.” She laughs. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I think I need a drink after the past few hours. Anyone?” 

 

Emma looks wildly at her, then back at Regina, who is still staring at the phone with a shadow across her face. “Please,” Neal says to Tamara, and he nudges Regina. “You?” 

 

“I think I’ve had enough for tonight,” Regina says, and she sinks into a seat, looking exhausted as she shrugs off the mystery of the missing blog post. Emma sits, too, still very confused, and Regina lays her head onto Emma’s shoulder. “I need a nap,” she says, her eyes drifting closed.

 

Neal winks at Emma. Jacinda raises her eyebrows. Mulan still looks as perturbed as Emma feels. Regina shifts a little closer to Emma, her hair soft against Emma’s neck.

 

Marian says suddenly, “Where did Zelena go?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it's been _forever_. Hang in there, it won't be long now, I promise!!! Thank you for all your ongoing feedback and support for this fic!! Y'all are the greatest  <3


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ily all thank u for all the comments and kudos and feedback!!! you're the greatest!!!!!

**SEPTEMBER 3**

_63 Days Until the General Election_

 

Sixty-three days to go. _Sixty-three_ . Jacinda has put up a little white board next to her cubicle where she erases the number each day and writes in the new one. The **_63_ ** is like a constant reminder for Emma, following her wherever she goes in the office.

 

Sixty-three days until the election, when they get Regina elected to the office she deserves. Sixty-three days until Emma ends things with Neal and then gets the hell out of town. _That_ countdown is a private one, and it feels endless, while the election countdown feels like they’re defusing a bomb with just seconds to go.

 

She’d made a decision, on that night outside the club, and now she feels it in every step she takes, every smile with Neal, every moment when Regina looks at her with quiet worry as though she can sense something is on Emma’s mind. It feels cowardly to prolong the inevitable, but it’s the right call. She can’t shake up the campaign before the election. And she has no idea how blindsided Neal might be if she does anything sooner.

 

Very, very blindsided, she decides when he pokes his head into her cubicle. “Family dinner tonight,” he announces. “Our presence is demanded.”

 

“What?” Emma says, appalled. “Why do I have to go?”

 

Neal points a finger at her. “You have to go because I am not sitting through a three-way Mills stare-down on my own. And because you were specifically invited,” he says, as an afterthought. “Cora likes to keep her enemies close. Seems like you’ve made it.”

 

“You hide in a woman’s house _once_ and humiliate her candidate…” Emma grouches, displeased and not _entirely_ displeased. Gold-Mills dinners are agonizing, but it’ll be more time spent with Regina, at least. And– _sixty-three–_ that’s more time to treasure before everything goes to shit. “Fine. When are we going?”

 

Neal glances at his phone. “I actually have to run out to take care of something,” he says. “I’ll have Tamara drop me off at the mansion. You good to go with Regina?”

 

Emma shrugs, nonchalant. “Yeah, I guess,” she says. “I want to coordinate some of the volunteers for this week’s canvassing. Peter and his crew want to help, but they’re…well, they haven’t figured out the _don’t intimidate voters_ part of the equation. They’re doing their best,” she offers, and Neal snickers.

 

“I’m sure they are. See you later.” He leans forward to kiss her and Emma shifts to kiss him instead, her lips on his cheek for an instant so he doesn’t question her avoidance. _Good_. She can’t keep that up forever, but it’s a relief to miss it when she can.

 

He’s out the door a minute later, trailing after Tamara, and Emma shrugs and glances at her computer, screwing up her nose as she squints at the spreadsheet. She has to divide the Main Street volunteers so they can speak to a wide range of townspeople, but that also means making combinations of scrappy Lost Boys and Regina’s stuffy overachievers that won’t self-destruct. It’s hard work, and she’s been busy with it all day.

 

Mulan sitting down in her cubicle is a welcome distraction. “I have a basic information leaflet for the kids,” she says, passing it over. “They won’t read it, but I tried. I added color.” It’s surprisingly bright for Mulan, big red letters in bold and green italics underlined and a lot of graphics. Mulan looks sheepish. “It may have been suggested to me that my pamphlets are too boring,” she allows, then abruptly, “Did Neal say where he was going?”

 

Emma shrugs. “Just to take care of something. Maybe something about the debate?” There are two planned for the next couple of months, one in late September and the other in late October. Regina has been preparing with Neal and Tamara, reviewing policy and sharpening her debate repartee. “You can probably call if you need him.”

 

“I don’t,” Mulan says, but she still looks perturbed. “He’s just been…don’t you think he and Tamara have been kind of…skulking around a lot?” She makes a face. “Bad phrasing. But they ditched me completely at the club that night, and I’ve been…I don’t know. Noticing a lot of it now.”

 

Emma blinks at her, considering her words. “They’ve been friends for years,” she says, thinking back to dozens of their interactions for the past few months. “What, do you think they’re having a secret affair?” she asks, laughing, a ridiculous surge of hope firing through her. Neal finding someone else would solve _everything_ , could end their relationship without Emma losing Regina or even Neal as a friend.

 

Mulan gives her a scornful look. “You can seem a tiny bit less enthusiastic about it,” she says dryly, but she shrugs. “Neal’s a good guy. And he’s crazy about you. He isn’t cheating on you.” She looks deflated, almost, as though Emma hadn’t quite hit on what she’d wanted her to. “Sorry to disappoint.”

 

Emma winces. “I’m not– I don’t _want_ him to be cheating on me– you know what? Let’s pretend this conversation never happened,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose. Mulan sighs, shoulders dropping, and shakes her head, slipping out of the cubicle.

 

The truth is, Neal _does_ do a good amount of skulking, and if she’d been paying a bit more attention to him, it might have set off alarm bells. Neal has always been prone to secrecy, had kept plenty from her when they’d dated the first time, and he’s in and out at odd hours lately, even at night. Emma doesn’t know what he’s up to, but she trusts him– or at least she trusts his intentions.

 

She thinks.

 

She finishes up her spreadsheet and then slips into Regina’s office, leaning against the wall to watch Regina as she speaks on the phone. “Yes, of course. We’ll have to finalize some details…that would be wonderful.” She’s enthused about whatever the discussion is, twisting the phone cable around her fingers and sparing Emma a bright smile. “You have Tamara’s number. We’ll be in touch.”

 

The voice on the other line is still talking, and Regina’s brow furrows as she follows it, typing busily as she listens. Emma silently slides into a second office chair that is next to Regina’s at the desk, perching cross-legged on it and glancing over Regina’s shoulder at her notes.

 

They’re a list of talking points for one of the local unions, with **_DO NOT FUCK THIS UP_ ** written in a large font across the top of the page. A note from Regina, for Regina, and Emma feels so unconscionably fond of her sometimes that she almost can’t bear it.

 

 _What?_ Regina mouths, eyeing her with a furrow in her brow. Emma shakes her head, spinning absentmindedly as Regina finishes her call. “Yes, definitely. I’ve got it down. Good to hear from you.” She sets the phone down. “The unions want me to come in as a guest speaker so they can get to know me as candidate. Big event, and we don’t have to do any of the funding. Between that, the debate, and the street fair in a few weeks, we’re going to have a lot of cheap publicity this September.”

 

“They really are taking you seriously,” Emma says, grinning. “Kind of amazing for a bunch of kids, huh?” She nudges Regina, gleeful. “Something to casually mention at family dinner tonight to make your mom’s head explode.”

 

Regina smiles vaguely at her. “Family dinner?” she repeats, distracted. “Did I miss a summons?” She peers at her cell phone, then checks her emails. “Huh,” she says, pursing her lips. “Well, I suppose it’s to be expected. Mother did eject me from the family rather unceremoniously.” She stands. “Well, have fun. I wasn’t invited.”

 

“ _What_ ?” Emma gapes at her. “What do you mean, you weren’t invited? You’re– that is _low_ .” Cora is quietly, coolly punishing Regina without ever speaking to her. Emma can’t imagine what Cora might do if she were _angry_. “You’re coming with me.”

 

Regina shakes her head. “Emma, you’re Neal’s guest. You can’t bring a guest.” She’s shrugging it off, but there’s an undercurrent in the way she moves, a sting that she can’t quite disguise. “In the scheme of things, being punished by being uninvited to family dinners is…quite the silver lining. I’ll be fine. Excellent, really.”

 

 _That_ she means, though perhaps not wholeheartedly. “Come on,” Emma coaxes. “You should just show up. Force her to deal with you. You aren’t the kind of person who runs and hides when you’re told to.” Regina shoots her an unamused look. Emma says, “And what am I going to do without you? Make awkward eye contact with Zelena? I’m very good at awkward eye contact,” she says, attempting to inject some levity into the conversation. “Remember how good my eye contact game was with you at the start of the campaign–?”

 

“You look at my sister like _that_ and I end you,” Regina says, reaching for her pantsuit jacket and offering Emma a smoldering glare that lights her on fire. “Let’s go. Where’s Neal?”

 

“Out. With Tamara, having a sordid affair, if you ask Mulan,” Emma says, plucking the jacket away and holding it open for Regina to slip into. She untucks her hair from the collar, letting it rest against the outside.

 

Regina looks sharply at her. “What?” There’s a note of something other than reproach in her voice, something that might be the same note of hope as Emma herself had had. “You think…”

 

“Nah,” Emma says, shuffling her feet. “Neal isn’t like that.” She lets go of Regina’s hair, taking a sharp step back. “It was just a joke.”

 

“Not the best of jokes,” Regina says grimly. She looks askance at Emma. “Are you…does it bother you?”

 

“What? Neal cheating on me with Tamara? I don’t think it’d be fair of me to…you know, be very outraged about it,” Emma admits, biting her lip. “Considering.” She’s uncomfortable with the topic, with the idea of them discussing this doomed _thing_ between them, and Regina falls silent for a moment, waiting for Emma to gather her things and walking with her to Regina’s car.

 

“You know–” Regina stops, swallowing. “You know if Neal ever hurt you like that, I’d kick his ass.” She unlocks the car and ducks in, Emma taking the passenger seat. “You feeling guilty about a one-time thing would be drastically different than–”

 

She’s getting herself worked up over what really had been a joke, and Emma pokes her as she pulls away. “Careful. Someone might think we were friends with the way that you’re getting all protective.”

 

“ _Protective_?” Regina says it as though it’s a curse. She narrows her eyes at Emma. “We’re not friends.”

 

“No,” Emma agrees easily, because that particular truth is beginning to feel comforting. And because she can’t quite keep her mouth shut, she blurts out, “Actually, Neal thinks you have a crush on me.”

 

Regina jerks the car and swerves, screeching to a halt at the stop sign. “He _what_?”

 

“Wouldn’t that be just wild,” Emma says, grinning at her.

 

Regina looks very affronted. “I don’t have _crushes_ . I’m not twelve. And I have much better taste than…well…” She glares at Emma. “ _I don’t have crushes_.”

 

“What do you have, then?” Emma asks curiously. This is light, fun, a joke that isn’t really funny except that it is. It’s almost comforting not to take that idea seriously for a minute, to banter about it as though it’s absurd instead of a very dire reality. “Eternal devotion? Bosom-heaving?” Regina elbows her in the gut. “All…consuming gay…misery?” Emma finishes, doubling over as she struggles to breathe. “It’s very Jane Austen.”

 

Regina gives her a look. “You’ve never read Jane Austen.”

 

“I watched the movie. And I _did_ go to high school, you know. I’m not an idiot.” Okay, _go_ to high school may be an overstatement of the amount of time she’d actually spent there. But she’d picked up plenty along the way. She’s been holding her own at the campaign. “I’m just not too pretentious to claim I don’t have _crushes_.”

 

Regina makes a face at her and parks outside her mother’s house, looking a lot lighter than she had before they’d gotten into the car. “Not that there isn’t some bosom heaving, too,” Emma mumbles, ducking out of the car.

 

“What?” Regina says, twisting around to stare at her. Her eyes are unguarded, just a tiny bit startled and flustered.

 

Emma says, “Nothing,” and walks beside her, their hands brushing with each movement as they walk up the little hill that is the path to Cora Mills’s mansion.

 

* * *

 

Mother is late, which is _typical._ She must have known that Regina would be coming, invitation or not, and this is another power play from a woman who never gives up on power plays. Regina lurks in the foyer for a few minutes, examining herself in the mirror as though she’s a visitor instead of a daughter of this household, and only when Emma begins to get antsy does she lead the way into the house.

 

Mother must be furious with her. Regina hasn’t gotten a single call since she’d accepted the candidacy, not even the sly ones designed to undermine her and set her off balance. Mother’s rage runs cold, methodical and calculating, and it’s probably better that way. When Mother’s rage runs hot, she scorches the earth with it.

 

It’s something they have in common, the Mills women.

 

“Zelena’s in the den,” Emma murmurs when Regina finally steps out of the foyer. “Have you two talked since that blog post?”

 

Regina shakes her head. “I’m not…I’m not great at apologies,” she admits, squeezing her fingers into her palms. There are a thousand reasons not to apologize to Zelena, a thousand resentments over the years that have never been resolved. And Zelena _is_ working with Mother, so why does it matter if she hadn’t been the particular instigator of this drama? Sidney must have taken the pictures at Mother’s behest, though she can’t imagine why he’d betrayed her.

 

Another person she isn’t speaking to right now.

 

Still, her well-thought-out reasons falter at the sight of Zelena sitting alone in the den, perched on a the couch in a dress that is too tight at the waist and too formal to be anything other than an attempt to please Mother. Regina hesitates, quiet dread suffusing her.

 

Then, a respite. Gold’s voice sounding from the corridor, and with it, Neal’s. “I’d…better go see what Neal’s up to,” Regina says weakly, making a break for the corridor. She’s gone before Emma can join her, off to find a distraction.

 

Neal is speaking in a low voice, immersed in a hushed argument with his father. Regina only hears the tail end of a, “Tamara and I agree on this–” before Neal sees her and falls abruptly silent.

 

And _that_ , perhaps, is the most damning thing about the exchange. Regina stares hard at them, and Gold gives her a tight, knowing smile and melts away into the next room while Neal shifts from foot to foot. “Neal,” Regina says, lowering her voice. “Do _not_ tell me you’re actually–” Neal looks deeply guilty, and Regina’s stomach drops. “You are _not_ cheating on Emma with Tamara,” she hisses, horrified. “They both deserve better than that. Emma is completely–”

 

“Whoa, whoa,” Neal says, looking alarmed. “What are you talking about? You think I’m–”

 

“You’re doing _something_ !” Regina says, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him through the dining room, out the patio door. “Emma came to this town for _you_! And if you’re playing games with her because you and Tamara have finally decided you might as well date–”

 

“Okay, _enough_ ,” Neal says, holding up a hand. “Stop. Tamara’s my best friend. I’m not _dating_ her. And I’d never cheat on Emma!” He looks horrified at the idea, which is a relief and also deeply disappointing on a level she doesn’t want to contemplate. “I was out with her today because…” He chews on his lip, looking trapped, and then glances back through the patio doors warily. “I wanted to pick out a ring, okay? I’m gonna ask Emma to marry me.”

 

Regina gapes at him, something shattering within her. “ _What_?” She’s been…she’s been foolish enough to wonder, in a situation where Neal isn’t all that in love with Emma, if there might have been a chance for…

 

But this is so, so much worse, and Regina can’t breathe for a moment, can only stare at Neal as though pleading that it might be a lie.  

 

“Election Day,” Neal says, and now he sounds more confident, the sputtering and outrage gone. “I know we have a few months, but I want to be prepared for it. I promise, no distractions until then,” he assures Regina, who is still staring at him, unable to speak. “It’s just…it was always going to be her and me, you know?”

 

Regina feels as though she might throw up, right now, just thinking about it. “You’ve been dating for what? Six months? Isn’t that a little soon?”

 

Neal grins, undeterred. “It’ll be more like nine months by Election Day. And we _work_ , you know? We’ve always worked. We’ve been living together for six months, and I can…I can see myself spending the rest of my life with her, I guess. She’s _amazing_. And she was so upset when she realized that that snowflake necklace wasn’t from me–”

 

“Was she,” Regina says blankly. So Neal had been the one to tell her about the necklace, then, hardly thinking about what it might reveal. Regina remembers clasping the necklace on that night in Neal’s bedroom, Emma shivering in front of her and the tension almost too much to bear. Had Emma known then? And Emma had kept wearing it even after their talk at the club– is still wearing it today, even. What does that–

 

Neal shrugs impatiently. “Yeah. I’m glad she was. It didn’t feel right,” he admits. “Like taking credit for something that hadn’t been mine. But forget that. I think…Emma really wanted something like that from me and I had had no idea. I’ve gotta be…better, you know? I have to be a better boyfriend to her. I have to…anticipate what she wants before she does. And she’s going to need a reason to stay after the election.”

 

Regina blinks at him. “A reason to stay?” She’s worried about the same thing, albeit with different conclusions. Emma is here for two reasons: because Neal is here, and because she wants to win this election. What happens next? What does Emma do in town? There are a dozen options that Emma might choose here, but Regina also knows that Emma tends to run when she’s feeling lost. “You think…you think Emma would leave?” she says, her heart twinging at the thought.

 

“I think she will if she has nothing holding her here,” Neal murmurs, and he looks determined. “So I’m going to propose to her. You’ve seen us together. We’d be getting married eventually, anyway. No time like the present, huh?” He grins up at Regina, boyish and bright, and Regina can’t return the smile. “Think she’ll say yes?”

 

An image has crystallized in Regina’s mind, and it makes her ill. Emma in a white dress, holding Neal’s hands at the front of a happy crowd. Emma with a baby in her arms, leaning into Neal, smiling in a deliriously happy new existence where everything is exactly the way she craves it to be. Neal and Emma, the _Cassidys_ , and Regina as Emma’s…sister-in-law? Emma in love with Neal and Regina hopelessly pining from afar?

 

Or even worse, Emma and Regina still with this tension between them and Emma now married to Neal? Regina shakes her head, Jacinda’s words from the club ringing through her mind. _I’m pretty sure that Neal doesn’t want a girlfriend who’s hung up on you, either._

 

She tilts her head and mumbles, without thinking, bitter and heartsick, “If she has nothing better to do, I’m sure she will.”

 

“What?” Neal looks taken aback. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Just…” Regina sighs, frustrated, and she doesn’t know who she’s doing this for– Emma or Neal or herself, someone who will pay the price for Neal’s big plan. Emma might run. Emma might say yes. Both responses fill Regina with dread. “That’s how everything else has gone for you two, isn’t it? Haven’t you ever noticed?”

 

Neal shakes his head, still affronted. “Look, not every relationship has to be…some kind of Hollywood romantic, okay? Those aren’t the relationships that _last_. Emma and I love each other, and we’re happy together. It doesn’t have to be explosive to work.”

 

“Is it working?” Regina demands, and she hurts, and knows she’s hurting Neal in turn. She isn’t being fair. Neal isn’t to blame for…for the stress of her fight with Zelena, or for Mother’s cold fury, or for Regina’s own _thing_ she’s attempting to get over. Neal is an innocent, but she can’t seem to stop herself. “Is ‘we get along’ enough of a basis for a _marriage_? Come on, Neal. You deserve better than…than a woman who is about as interested in you as she is the morning paper.”

 

Neal shifts back against the patio rail, looks very pained at her accusations. “That’s not _true_ , Regina. I thought…I finally found a girl you _like_ ,” he says, sounding aggrieved. “What _is_ this?”

 

Regina scowls at him, trapped. “I don’t–”  

 

“I’m not _blind_ ,” Neal says frustratedly. “I know you care about Emma, too. How can you…”

 

“I’m trying to protect you!” Regina says hotly. She doesn’t know if she is, if she’s thinking clearly at all. Maybe this is Regina being selfish. Maybe she’s only hoping that he’ll end things with Emma so–

 

So _nothing_ . She’s right about this. Neal deserves someone who _is_ enthusiastic about him, who is head-over-heels instead of just settling. And if he doesn’t recognize that, then it’s up to her to tell him before he makes a mistake that will tear his life apart. “I don’t need you to protect me,” Neal says, lips pressed in a thin line. “I don’t understand why you’re _being_ like this about…about…” He shakes his head. “Maybe you really do just like me better when I’m a disaster you have to fix,” he says.

 

It isn’t angry. It’s resigned, as though he’s always known it, and Regina aches. “Neal, _no_ ,” she says helplessly. “I don’t–”

 

“I’ve got to go inside,” Neal says, twisting around to yank open the patio door. “Don’t want to leave Emma alone with Zelena and my dad for too long.” He turns back to her, his face set and unreadable. “I _am_ going to do it,” he says slowly. “I wish you’d…you’d want to be a part of this, too.”

 

He slips inside, and Regina sinks onto a patio chair, face in her hands.

 

* * *

 

There are more stylized Latin American art pieces in this room, Lenca art and some other pieces that look like the kind of stuff that some of the con artists in parts of Florida had liked to sell as _Cuban art_ for the tourists. Emma entertains herself imagining Cora at one of those little shops, paying a small fortune to a seller putting on an exaggerated accent for the _authenticity_ that makes bad art sell.

 

Zelena says crossly, from the couch, “The cleaners for that wall hanging will charge more than you make during your whole doomed campaign. I’d stop smudging it, if I were you.”

 

Emma drops her hand, giving up on examining anything in the room that will let her avoid looking at Zelena. Zelena watches her sullenly, dressed to the nines and looking every bit as uncomfortable in this room as Emma is. “Do you visit Storybrooke a lot?” Emma ventures.

 

Zelena scoffs. “Hardly,” she says. “Mother’s always in a rush to keep me out of the public eye, lest the neighbors recall that she birthed a bastard.” She says it in an English drawl, almost mocking, almost bitter. “Haven’t you been listening to Regina? I’m here to _punish_ her.”

 

“Yeah.” There’s no point in denying it, and Emma sinks into the big chair that turns toward the couch. “Sorry. That really sucks for both of you.”

 

Zelena sneers at her. “Yes, how terribly sad for Regina, being forced to see, for once in her life, exactly what it’s like to be me. She has no idea how hard I had it.”

 

“And are you enjoying being the apple of your mother’s eye right now?” Emma says mildly. Zelena is all righteous outrage and resentment, wrought into this by Cora’s machinations. Emma knows, too, what it’s like to never have a mother who’d loved her, but she thinks it must be a very different experience when you actually _know_ your mother. “Seems kind of shitty, too.”

 

Zelena doesn’t respond, just lets out a bitter sound and slumps back against the couch. Emma takes that as a reprieve, relaxing a hair before Zelena says, abruptly, “I didn’t take those pictures.”

 

“We know,” Emma says, and she wets her lips for a moment and contemplates Zelena. “Regina’s been beating herself up about it.” At Zelena’s disbelieving scoff, Emma amends, “She doesn’t _say_ it, but I–”

 

“Of course she doesn’t,” Zelena says, effectively cutting her off. Emma sighs. Zelena stares at her, lip curled, and bursts out suddenly, “You know she’s got a _thing_ for you, don’t you?” It’s almost triumphant, as though she’d been holding onto it to use against Regina, and any charitable feelings Emma might have had toward Zelena fade.

 

“No,” Emma says coolly, her heart thumping. “She doesn’t.”

 

Zelena leans forward, conspiratorial. “Oh, but she _does_ . She’s been clinging to Neal for so many years, desperate for a sibling she actually _wants_ , and now she’s going to sabotage it for some little ruffian Neal picked up off the streets. I love it,” she says, gleeful.

 

“Regina so rarely falls in love,” she says thoughtfully, grinning as though this is an exciting bit of gossip instead of the fact that’s been haunting them for weeks. “This is going to be torment for her more than anything Mother could have dreamed up.” Emma stares at her, unsmiling. Zelena is finding this _entertaining_ , is sitting up as though Regina’s misery is something joyous to her, and Emma feels sick, Zelena’s words tripping a dozen frustrations that she’s been repressing until now.

 

“You’re an asshole,” Emma says, and she stands, her fists clenched. “Do you get some kind of twisted enjoyment out of– out of watching her _hurt_ ? She didn’t ask for your mother to treat her like this. Your mother has been making her _miserable_. She makes both of you miserable. And instead of trying to be a decent human being about it, you–”

 

“You don’t know anything about me,” Zelena hisses. “You don’t know anything about us. Regina made _my_ life miserable–”

 

“I’d say it was fairly mutual,” Regina says from the doorway above the room. She descends the two steps into the living room, her lips pressed together tightly as she stares at Zelena. She looks…perturbed, a little shaken, as though something earth-shattering has happened over the past few minutes. “I’m sorry I thought you’d taken those pictures,” she says, her words dull, and Emma moves to her to offer some quiet support. Regina shifts away from her, won’t meet her eyes at all. “I was wrong. I really just…I don’t want to fight.”

 

Zelena scowls. “Oh, play the bigger person _now_. Typical. You always liked to play the victim. As though you hadn’t started any fights–”

 

“I didn’t,” Regina says wearily. “I didn’t ask Mother to treat you the way she did.”

 

“You didn’t fight it, either,” Zelena points out smugly, and Emma looks between them, at a loss as to what she’s meant to do here. She wonders where Neal is, if he’d managed to dodge this conflict by hiding in the next room, if he might come and get her out of here– “You were perfectly happy to be Mother’s most prized possession, and you were ungrateful enough to throw it all away.” She straightens. “Well, I’m not a _fool_. I won’t make the same mistakes you did. Mother will–”

 

“Mother won’t love you,” Regina says, her voice deadly soft. Zelena’s eyes turn sharp and angry. “Mother isn’t capable of that kind of love. I’ve tried to tell you this before. She’ll use you and then discard you, and we’ll all be left with nothing.”

 

Zelena grits her teeth, but she doesn’t deny it. “Better me than _you_ ,” she bites out. “Maybe she’d discard _you_. You’ve been a thorn in her side. But I’m not you. I’m smarter. I can play the game. And you can’t fathom that I could ever do what you couldn’t, but–”

 

“Zelena, please,” Regina murmurs, and now her voice is only muted, dulled by whatever has shifted her mood and the fight gone from it. “Don’t do this to yourself. You know how it ends. You know Mother.”

 

“You _don’t_ know,” Zelena shoots back, and she’s agitated, something in Regina’s words digging deeply. “You don’t know what it’s like to– to spend your life just… desperately wishing for someone to _care_ –”

 

“Actually,” Regina says, and she takes a breath and then exhales, her eyes fixed on Zelena. “I wished you would,” she says, and Zelena falls silent. Regina looks very fragile, more vulnerable than Emma’s seen her in front of her sister, and Emma wonders again what the hell had happened when Regina had dashed down the hall. “I wanted my big sister,” Regina says quietly. “I _needed_ you. We could have fought Mother together. We could have fought for Storybrooke–”

 

Zelena lifts her shoulders, looks away from Regina. “You had Neal,” she mumbles. “You always had Neal.”

 

“Because I never had you.” Regina takes a step forward, and she looks worn out in a way that she hadn’t been when they’d arrived at the house. “I’m tired of fighting, Zelena. I don’t want to…I don’t want to do this anymore. And you deserve better than being another Killian Jones for Mother. Hasn’t she hurt you enough?” She sounds almost pleading, and Emma aches for her, an onlooker at a private conversation.

 

Zelena twists her hands, almost buzzing with tormented energy. Her eyes flash, and she looks as though she might erupt again, as though her next strike might be the one to destroy a Regina who stands on the verge of falling.

 

And the door to the house opens, Cora Mills’s distinctive stride sounding through the foyer, and Zelena falls silent again.

 

* * *

 

Neal won’t even look at her. He’s sitting at the end of the table, next to his father at the head, and Emma sits between him and Regina. Neal speaks to Emma in murmurs and to Gold in pleasant conversation. It’s a mark at how angry he must be with Regina that he’s chatting with his father.

 

It feels almost like a preview of what’s to come, if Neal ever finds out about what she’s done with Emma. It makes her stomach drop, makes the dread almost unbearable. How much of what they’ve done is unforgivable? The kiss, certainly. But it’s little moments– hands in hands, eyes warm with emotion, a dozen times they’d nearly crossed the line– that she thinks of now. They’ve been piling up lately, one after the other, and while the kiss can be shrugged off as a moment of untethered passion, the quiet bits feel…

 

 _Worrying_.

 

She eats mechanically. Across the table is her mother, who loathes her, and her sister, who hadn’t even been gifted the seat beside Mother. Instead, Killian Jones sits between them lazily, leering at Emma from across the table. Emma says, “Touch my leg with your foot again and I’ll break every toe on that foot.” Jones’s leer is just a tiny bit muted.

 

Neal nudges her. “That’s my girl,” he says, grinning.

 

Mother’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “Perhaps the children would be best served in the kitchen,” she says pointedly. Emma smiles thinly at her. Mother stares back, a cool, unnerving smile upon her face. Emma holds the gaze, her eyes flinty hard, and Regina slips her hand under the table to squeeze Emma’s hand.

 

Zelena breaks into the exchange. “Mother,” she says abruptly, “I’ve been thinking about what my role in the firm will be.”

 

Mother tears her eyes from Emma to give Zelena a smile. “Oh, darling, don’t worry yourself with that,” she says airily. “The partnership was a gift. You can enjoy the benefits of the firm without involving yourself in any consulting.” She reaches over Jones to pat Zelena’s shoulder. “You have some other plans right now, don’t you?” she says, eyeing Jones significantly.

 

He looks very pleased. Zelena looks dissatisfied. This is the moment when Regina would normally feel smug, but she’s too exhausted to concede to petty urges right now. Her brother isn’t talking to her, and he’s going to marry the girl she…

 

Her mother, too, hasn’t acknowledged her once. The table had been set for seven, another sign that this is one of Mother’s power plays, but Killian Jones is occupying her usual spot at the table. Mother had greeted everyone, even Emma, to make her overlooking Regina more glaring. Mother has said _after you’re mayor_ to Jones twelve times this meal alone.

 

And Zelena thrums with anxious energy from the seat opposite Regina. She doesn’t acknowledge Regina either, but that’s to be expected. Zelena never notices anyone else when Mother is around. She only hovers, waiting for bits of approval that Mother doses out methodically, and Regina wishes she hadn’t been so honest with Zelena before the meal.

 

Emma is still holding Regina’s hand under the table, and Regina squeezes her hand, feeling a returning, comforting squeeze. She watches Killian Jones’s face carefully, and when the smirk widens, she slams the point of her heel into his ankle before he can touch Emma’s leg again. He lets out a strangled noise and looks accusingly at Regina. She smiles thinly, her mother’s smile.

 

Zelena ignores them all. “I want to earn my place in the firm,” she says. “I have the work experience and the educational credentials for it. I can work with candidates–”

 

“Darling,” Mother says, her tone brooking no contradiction. “Do you really think it’s wise for our campaigns to have such…association?” Her smile is conciliatory, as though she hasn’t just called Zelena _bastard child I want nothing to do with_ in so many words. “You’re such a bright, talented girl. When Killian is mayor, you’re going to be his shining jewel– his chief of staff, perhaps,” she suggests.

 

Jones says, “I thought Ivy–” His words are quelled by Mother’s eyes. “Well, then,” he says easily, draping an arm onto Zelena’s shoulder. Zelena doesn’t seem to notice him. She’s staring at Mother, laser-focused as always on her.

 

Mother turns, satisfied that the conversation is over as Zelena’s mouth opens and shuts and she looks as though she might cry. “Neal,” Mother says, rounding on him, and Regina freezes, afraid of what she might say. But it’s only, “I feel as though you’re here visiting almost every day lately with that girl of yours. Not this one,” she says carelessly, motioning to Emma with a curl in her lip. “That Tamara girl. She’s done quite well for herself.”

 

“Yes, she has,” Neal says stiffly, and he slides an arm around Emma, protective. Emma’s hand slips from Regina’s just in time, her foot bumping against Regina’s in silent apology. “So has Emma, my girlfriend.”

 

Mother’s eyes flicker to Emma, almost amused. “Yes, the girlfriend,” she says. “What are your plans for after the campaign, dear?” Emma freezes. It’s barely noticeable, the way she tenses, but Regina picks it up and Mother does, too. “Perhaps the diner has an opening for waitresses,” Mother says pleasantly.

 

Emma blinks at her, and now she looks very perplexed at what Mother had probably meant to be scathing. “She’s insulting you,” Regina informs her. “Not very well.” Her eyes meet Neal’s for an instant, and the amusement in his eyes remains for a moment before he looks away.

 

“Huh,” Emma says, a little bolder. “Well, I guess I might work in the diner. Who knows?” There’s a note to her voice, something uncertain below the surface, and Regina wants to seize her hand again.

 

But she can’t, not at this table with Neal beside Emma, not with Mother’s eyes suddenly turning to train onto Regina. “Make sure you save Regina a job there, too, come November,” she says, and the insult _there_ is scorching.

 

Regina opens her mouth to respond, but Zelena beats her to it, eyes flashing with a certain danger to them. “Come November, Regina will be elected mayor,” she says, and Regina looks at her in gratified surprise.

 

Mother recovers from her own surprise quickly. “Now, darling,” she says, a note of warning to her voice. “I’m so glad you two are getting along, but you can’t possibly believe that–”

 

“You’re right,” Zelena cuts Mother off, and she looks angry, hurt, and fierce. “She only has a few major donors, and from the way the news puts it, her campaign is hemorrhaging money on silly things like _campaign outreach_ and _actually talking to people_.” Regina watches her in surprise, startled at Zelena’s sharp tone

 

Zelena straightens, meets Regina’s startled gaze, and says triumphantly, “It’s a good thing that I’ve just come into some money, isn’t it? Gold-Mills Consulting has _so_ many discretionary funds for campaign contributions. Shame they’re not tax deductible, with the amount I’ll be giving,” she says cheerily as Regina gapes at her. “Shut your mouth, little sister,” Zelena says, frowning at her with that smugness of _surprising_ her, a rare, tentative warmth to her eyes. “That isn’t mayoral at all.”

 

Mother’s voice is hard, almost threatening. “Zelena,” she says coldly. “You have never been particularly bright, but I know you must understand exactly what you’re compromising–”

 

“What? A mayoral campaign in a town no one’s ever heard of?” Zelena says, standing up. Emma is gaping at her, Neal is grinning, and Killian Jones looks scandalized. “A celebrity who decided to go home instead of trying to make it in Hollywood– _oh_ ,” she says suddenly, gleeful. “I know _why_.”

 

“Tell us,” Emma says, and she’s beginning to look like she’s enjoying this. Regina can hardly process enough to be having fun. “I’ve been wondering.”

 

“Wracking your brain, eh?” Zelena says triumphantly. “Pulling out your–” Her hand lands on Jones’s head and she yanks up, taking half his luscious mop with her. “– _hair_ ,” she finishes, brandishing the toupee as Jones stares at her in betrayed horror. Emma laughs aloud, and even Neal lets out a surprised bark of laughter. Regina stares, her lips twitching unconsciously as Zelena rounds on Mother. “I can’t be bought off to do your bidding, Mother. And I won’t be hidden away anymore.” She drops the toupee unceremoniously, grabbing a little truffle off a plate that one of the maids is bringing into the room. “Cheers,” she says, and she saunters from the room.

 

Regina gapes after her, wordless. Had that been…had Zelena just offered her…? She rises, ignoring Mother’s sharp, and furious, “ _Sit down_ ,” and escapes the room, hurrying after Zelena into the kitchen.

 

Zelena is back in the den, leaning heavily against a side table and breathing hard. “I can’t believe I just did that,” she says, and Regina puts a tentative hand on her back, stands with her as she shakes her head and turns to Regina. “Well,” she says, “Why don’t we try this sister thing again?”

 

* * *

 

Cora has stormed out, and Zelena is booking a flight back to London when Emma follows Neal back to the living room. “I don’t think Mother will be hospitable for much longer,” she says, looking a little awed at her own rebellion. “Best to be gone by morning.”

 

“You can stay in my apartment tonight,” Regina offers, tentative. “I have a small guest room–”

 

Zelena shakes her head. “We’re getting along so nicely,” she says, and her voice is light and teasing. “Let’s not push our luck.” She ducks into one of the cabinets at the side of the room, and emerges with a bottle of wine. “Anyone?”

 

“Please,” Neal says, sinking onto the couch. Regina looks at him in the same way that she’s been looking at him all evening, with yearning and uncertainty that feels uncharacteristic to their relationship. Something is going on between them, and Emma can’t put her finger on what. There’s a tension there, the sort that they haven’t had since Emma had first joined the campaign.

 

Zelena fills a glass for him, then another for Regina and one for Emma. “Killian didn’t stay?” she says, sounding almost disappointed.

 

“He had to fix his hair,” Neal says, and he laughs helplessly, leaning back against the couch and caught somewhere between delight and despair. “Fuck, I hate that asshole so _much_.”

 

“He’s just a stooge,” Emma says dismissively, perching onto the big chair next to the couch. Zelena gives her an exaggerated wink and sprawls across the couch, leaving no space for Regina.

 

Regina looks unamused, but she squeezes in beside Emma on the big chair. It’s spacious enough that they can sit together, hardly touching each other. Hardly. Neal doesn’t seem to notice at all, absorbed in his wine and scowling about Killian Jones. Emma remembers her train of thought. “He doesn’t matter,” she finishes lamely.

 

Regina swallows the last of her glass of wine and retrieves the bottle from Zelena. “He’s a celebrity. We’ll have to counter that.”

 

“You’re a celebrity in this town, too,” Zelena says, rolling her eyes. “Little girls running around on Main Street in pantsuits and strangers asking me if I’m your sister. It’s a whole town _besotted_.” She downs her glass, too. Apparently, even this new, charitable Zelena has her limits. “You could come out as a lesbian and a bloody axe murderer and you’d still get votes.”

 

Regina rolls her eyes. “I think I’d rather not take that risk,” she says.

 

“Right.” Zelena snatches the bottle back. “Higher office.”

 

Regina looks less than enthused at that. “One thing at a time,” Emma says, remembering Regina’s reluctance when it comes to Cora’s larger plans for her. Still, she can’t help but imagine it for a moment, Regina running for _president_ in a future where the whole world knows who she is. Political ads on every corner, a memory from Emma’s past chasing her everywhere she goes.

 

Or maybe it’d be long enough that Emma might return to help work on Regina’s campaign again, to get her to that role, still hopelessly bogged down by _feelings_ but desperate to be in Regina’s shadow again. She doesn’t know where she’d be right now without that shadow, without finding some purpose on this campaign.

 

Until the campaign, she’d been coasting on aimless, on drifting without thinking much about the _future_. Now, it’s all she can think about. She has to leave Regina behind, has to build a new life somewhere else or be trapped in this interminable limbo forever, and yet, every future she imagines still contains Regina in some form.

 

Neal has fallen asleep on the couch, exhausted after whatever he’d been doing all day, and Emma nudges Regina. “What are you two fighting about?”

 

Regina refuses to look at her. Emma’s brow furrows. “The election,” she guesses. “Your parents. Me?” Regina _talks_ to her, and if she isn’t, then that means…

 

Regina’s shoulders droop, answer enough, and Emma says, “He doesn’t know…”

 

“What is there to know?” Regina murmurs wearily. “What do we have to hide already?”

 

“The fact that you two are madly in love?” Zelena suggests, and they stiffen, their shoulders bumping together. Emma takes a long drink of her wine. “Come on,” Zelena says, motioning to them. “You both clearly _know_. Emma almost bit my head off earlier just for mentioning it.”

 

“We’re not…in…” Regina stumbles over the words, and Emma glares at Zelena, suddenly no longer a fan of the woman. “Emma’s dating our _brother_ ,” she hisses finally.

 

Zelena shrugs, glancing over at Neal. “He’s hardly my brother,” she says dismissively. “How hasn’t he noticed yet? He’s always been dim, but not _that_ dim–”

 

“We’re friends,” Emma lies baldly, because it’s the only innocent explanation for… _them_. “That’s all.”

 

“Ugh.” Zelena stares at them, disgusted. “You nauseate me.” She stands up, passing the bottle to Regina. “Take this. You’ll need it. I’m going to bed.” She stomps from the room, the sounds of her footsteps echoing as she retreats up the stairs.

 

Regina sighs, passing the wine to Emma. “Still the same Zelena,” she says, leaning back against the seat. “Always desperate to talk about matters that are _none_ of her business.”

 

“And that we don’t talk about,” Emma says, and she leans back, too, drinking straight from the bottle. Regina gives her a look, and Emma says in a low voice, “My tongue has been in your mouth.”

 

Regina snorts, but she takes the bottle, taking a drink as well. “That never happened.”

 

“Would it be…” Emma clears her throat, shooting a glance at still-slumbering Neal. “Would it be so terrible if we talked about this…this _thing_ we have?” she asks. A part of her is desperate to, to work past this all somehow and _fix_ it so she doesn’t have to leave.

 

Regina sets the wine down, turning her head so they’re staring at each other from either end of the chair. “What’s the use in talking about it?” she asks. “What do we accomplish in…in treating it like it’s real…” She stares back at Neal, trapped in agony. “He’s the only family I have here, Emma,” she whispers. “Forget Zelena. She’ll hate me again in a week after this wears off. My father can hardly set foot in this town because he’s so afraid of my mother. But Neal is…I can’t hurt Neal.”

 

She says it definitively, and Emma reaches for her, presses a hand to her neck so she can stroke Regina’s chin with her thumb. She dwells sometimes on what it might mean for her if she ends things with Neal, on how Regina will hate her for breaking Neal’s heart. She thinks rarely of it from Regina’s perspective, where it’s a choice between her family and Emma. Regina gives her a shuddering smile. “He’ll be so good to you, Emma. I know he will. And that’s…that’s all I want for either of you.”

 

Emma’s snowflake necklace is glittering, brilliant as always when it catches light on its fractals. It burns something in her heart like defeat, like scorching longing. _I want you_ , she wants to say, but it isn’t fair to ask of Regina, who doesn’t seem to believe that her own happiness is worth anything. She says, though it isn’t nearly enough of what she wants to, “And what about you?”

 

“I’ll be with you two,” Regina whispers. “Isn’t that enough?” There’s no use in denying the connection they have anymore, not when it’s thrumming between them as though it’s alive. Emma blinks away tears, angry and hopeless tears that spill down her cheeks at this _absurdity_ , at being trapped in a place where she’s never wanted to be. She hates being in limbo more than anything else, being trapped in a place where everything she wants is in the hands of someone else.

 

And Regina seems to sense it, because of _course_ she does, because of _course_ Regina knows her as well as she knows herself. “I’m sorry,” Regina murmurs, and her arms slide around Emma, tug Emma to her. “I’m so sorry.” She kisses the top of Emma’s head, presses her lips to Emma’s forehead and holds them there, and Emma cries for herself and for Regina and even for _stupid_ Neal, who doesn’t understand a thing about either of them.

 

“Sorry,” she mumbles when she finally _can_ , when she’s caught her breath and regained control of her voice. “You don’t– you shouldn’t have to apologize for…for not wanting…” She wipes away at her tearstained face, straightening and pulling away from Regina’s arms reluctantly. “I’m a mess,” she says ruefully, rubbing her eyes.

 

When she moves her hands from them, Regina is watching her with a look very close to despair. “You’re beautiful,” Regina corrects her, and Emma holds her gaze with her own, her breaths coming in short bursts and her heart straining apart at its seams like it might be breaking.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Regina is still in Daddy’s favorite chair, Emma wrapped around her like a sloth hangs onto a tree branch. Her arms are around Regina’s midsection, trapping one of Regina’s arms in place, and their legs are all tangled together. Neal is shifting on the couch, beginning to awaken, too, and Regina disentangles herself from Emma and finds a blanket in the hidden drawer beneath the chair, tucking it around Emma and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

 

Mother is nowhere to be found, but Regina walks into the formal living room to find Gold seated in a chair, reading the morning paper. “Regina,” he says, and his eyes follow her, sharp and knowing far more than he lets on. Regina shivers, as ever unnerved by him, giving him a curt nod and then retreating upstairs.

 

She finds a change of clothes in her old closet, and a deep red shirt that would fit Emma nicely. By the time she’s showered and made her way downstairs, Emma is yawning on the couch and Neal is drinking coffee, looking worse for the wear. He nods to her, which Regina takes as a sign that he’s forgiven her, or is at least too tired to remember that they’re fighting.

 

By the time they’re all dressed and ready to go, they’re due to work, and Mother has had Regina’s car booted. “I was blocking the driveway, I guess,” she says, staring at the bumper that’s just barely in the driveway. “Not that that _helps_. Let’s just…” She jerks her thumb at the street ahead of them. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk to the office, anyway, and the sheriff’s station is right across the road.

 

They walk in uncertain silence toward the office, and Emma shoots Regina a look and then says to Neal, “You two. Work it out,” and breaks into a jog, running ahead of them toward Main Street.

 

Neal watches her go and then laughs, shaking his head. “She’s a piece of work,” he says, and he hesitates, turning back to Regina. “I’m sorry I blew up at you,” he says finally. “I hate fighting with you.”

 

“I do, too,” Regina sighs, and she can feel the relief that comes with apology already. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you…that you needed protection. You’re an adult,” she says, and it’s strange, sometimes, how much older she feels than Neal. She’d never thought that he’d found it strange, too.

 

“I’m trying, Regina. I’m trying to…” Neal runs a hand through his hair, looking exhausted. “I’m trying to _grow up_ , I guess. I’ve been…I feel like I spent my twenties in limbo, just trying to escape my dad, you know?” Regina _does_ know. It’s most of why Neal’s always _been_ so stunted, had run across the country for years and come back defeated.

 

Neal smiles sadly. “And I never really could, but I’m trying. I’m helping you with all the debate prep. I’ve been talking to Sabine about putting my trust fund toward this restaurant idea. I’ve been…I’ve been trying to be the person I haven’t been.” He glances back at the mansion still towering behind them, chews his lip, says, “I don’t want you to be taking care of me for the rest of my life, okay? Sometimes I want to be the one taking care of you. I don’t know.”  

 

Regina stares at him, taken aback and feeling suddenly guilty. “Okay,” she says. “But I don’t need…”

 

Neal snorts. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, and he leans down to brush his lips against her forehead. “You’re invincible. Tell it to someone who believes it.” He glances ahead of them to find Emma, all the way down the block outside the office, puts a hand on Regina’s shoulder, tilts his face to look her in the eye. “You really don’t think I should marry Emma?”

 

Regina swallows past the guilt, closes her eyes and struggles to find the right words. “I think…I think Emma is…very young,” she says finally. “And you might be gearing up for the thirty-something existence, but do you really think she is?” It’s a reasonable question. Emma is a couple of years younger than Regina, and she probably _isn’t_ ready for a ring, and if Regina’s heart didn’t pound with dread when she thinks about Emma and Neal getting married then maybe she’d believe that she has noble intentions.

 

But Neal sags, unquestioning. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “Maybe not.” He chews on his lip again. “But she’s _it_ , right? Even if I have to wait a little longer before she’s ready. She’s the one.”

 

Regina stares down the block, finding Emma’s face flushed in the morning chill, her eyes bright and warm as she watches them approach. “She’s the one,” she echoes, and Neal squeezes her shoulders into a quick hug.

 

“I knew I’d win you over,” he says, and Regina doesn’t respond. Instead, she leads the way down the block to Emma, and looks away when Neal slips a hand into Emma’s and tells her, “All worked out, ma’am. Can we go to work now?”

 

Emma grins at him, then at Regina, her eyes lingering on Regina’s face. “If you insist. I was going to suggest a brunch at Granny’s–”

 

“ _Work_ ,” Regina says, amused, and she pushes the door to the office open.

 

And inside, chaos.

 

 _Chaos_.

 

Jacinda and Sabine are already there, scrambling as they yank something from the walls. “Fuck,” Sabine says when she sees them, her eyes wide in horror. “We got here and they were– they were–”

 

“Get _out_ ,” Jacinda orders, her eyes on Neal and her voice uncharacteristically sharp. “Get him out. Get him–”

 

“What’s going on?” Neal demands, and Regina’s eyes finally focus on the walls of the office.

 

They’re covered in little rectangles.The rectangles are everywhere– _everywhere_ , wallpapering the walls of the office and every cubicle, tacked into every available space. They’re taped across the window of the candidate’s office, and a good hundred of them have already fallen or been torn to the floor, littering the walkways.

 

 _Rectangles. No_ . She turns around, sees a dozen of them taped to the inside of the door, and her heart stops. Not just colorful rectangles. _Photographs_.

 

A few dozen photographs, duplicated hundreds of times for an intruder’s purposes. Regina snatches them off the door, holds them up, stares in horror. Neal says again, “What’s going on?” and he takes a photo and then laughs uncertainly. “What is…?” He takes another, then a third, and Regina wants to scream in frustration.

 

Emma is only gaping at them, looking very much as though the world has fallen from beneath her feet.

 

Maybe it has.

 

Top to bottom, front to back, the office is covered in photographs of Emma and Regina from the past month. Stolen moments, interactions that had flirted with the verge of crossing the line. Regina’s mouth at the corner of Emma’s lips. Emma’s forehead pressed to Regina’s. Hands entangled as they’d sat on the bench outside the office one evening, talking quietly without knowing they’d been watched.

 

All Emma and Regina, all undoubtedly– and Regina doesn’t know how she herself had doubted it, could ever doubt it, with all these moments displayed in front of them– so damningly romantic.

 

And suddenly, inevitably, even Neal is staring at the pictures with dawning, horrified realization; and Regina’s heart shatters to pieces on the floor, surrounded by a hundred pictures of her betrayal.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ASTOUND me, I'm so grateful that you're here and reading!! Thank you so much, you truly are the reason I write <3

**SEPTEMBER 4**

_62 Days Until the General Election_

 

Neal says, “You…” and he looks wildly from Emma to Regina. “And you! You…” He’s sputtering, gaping at them and then back at the pictures, shaking his head. “You were…you…?”

 

“Of course not,” Regina says immediately. She looks sick with dread, and Emma has to press her hands to her side to stop herself from reaching for her. “We _never_ – I mean–” She stops, her shoulders sagging. Emma takes a step forward to her, and Regina turns away from her deliberately. Emma chews on her lip, nauseous.

 

Neal rounds on her. “All this time– I was in _love_ and you two were…what, laughing behind my back? I told you yesterday I wanted to _marry_ Emma! No wonder you were so opposed to it!”

 

Emma says, “Whoa,” without thinking, very alarmed at that, and Neal’s head jerks around to stare at her in anguish.

 

“I’m in love with you,” he says hoarsely. “I’m _in love_ with you. And you’ve been…doing _this_ with my sister?” He jerks a thumb to the photos on the wall. “What the fuck. What the _fuck_ .” He looks around the room, gaping at the others. By now, everyone has arrived, loitering by the door and staring at the walls in trepidation. “Did all of you know?” he demands, his fists clenching. “Has everyone just– just been _waiting_ for– I am _such_ an _idiot_!” he snarls, slamming a fist onto one of the desks. A stack of papers goes flying, and the keyboard slips off the desk and crashes to the floor.

 

Regina flinches, frozen as she rarely is. Tamara, from behind her, says, “Okay. _Enough_ .” She steps forward, gesturing at the room. “We have volunteers coming in a half hour to make calls. They can’t see any of this. Clean it up. _Now_!” she barks out like she’s channeling Regina, and the others spring to action as though they’ve been desperate for it. Emma forces herself to turn around, clawing at pictures tacked to the walls, and Regina kneels to the ground and begins to scoop up the fallen ones. She still won’t look at Emma.

 

Neal stands in the middle of the room, his fists clenched and knuckles straining, and Tamara puts a hand on his back and walks him forcefully to the candidate’s office. She peers inside. “It’s clean,” she promises him. “Go in. Sit. Cool down, okay? You can talk this out later, when everyone is…a little less shocked,” she offers, and Neal just shakes his head and walks, mechanically, into the room.

 

Tamara shuts the door behind him, tugging a few pictures off the door and then moving across the room to scoop pictures off the wall near Emma. “How are you holding up?” she murmurs, and Emma looks at her in surprise.

 

She isn’t _friends_ with Tamara, per se, except through Neal, and Tamara seems to sense her confusion. “You’re a kid,” she says, leaning against the wall. “And you’re about to go through the grinder with those two.” She motions to Regina, whose jaw stiffens even more at that, and to Neal in the office. “I don’t know what exactly you two were doing, but if whoever took those pictures couldn’t get a single kiss, then, well…” She shrugs. “There isn’t much you can do about _feelings_. It’s a bad situation. Neal’s going to take a while.”

 

“Yeah,” Emma says, and her fingers pause on one of the pictures, Regina leaning against her as they sit together at Granny’s a week ago, Emma’s lips barely brushing her forehead. She hadn’t wanted it to happen like this. She’d wanted Neal to move on somehow, to painlessly forget about her and leave her with Regina. She’d wanted to run away from this mess and lose both Neal and Regina rather than to have them hate her.

 

Neal will hate them both. Regina will hate Emma for taking Neal from her. Emma swallows sudden despair, passing the pictures to Tamara and crouching on the floor where Regina is gathering photos. “Regina,” she murmurs, her eyes beseeching. “What do we–”

 

“I can’t do this right now,” Regina says abruptly, and Emma stops, her heart clenching. Regina doesn’t add anything, any reassurance or acknowledgement of Emma, and Emma stumbles back to her feet, watches the sharp lines of Regina’s shoulder blades as she crumples a picture between her fingers.

 

She’s lost Regina. She’d known it would happen, but she’d thought she’d have some time to _prepare_ , to cope with the fact that it had been an inevitability. She’s lost Regina, and it feels like she’s been hit by a train.

 

“Hey,” Tamara says, and she looks more subdued now, a little more sympathetic. “We’ve got to keep going, okay?”

 

They’ve got to keep going. Volunteers are coming, an election is looming, and there’s no time to waste on some broken love triangle they’ve been entangled in. “Okay,” Emma says, and she peels photos off the wall.

 

* * *

 

The world feels fuzzy, indistinct, like there’s music playing at the edge of her consciousness and she can’t quite hear it. The walls are clean at last, the pictures tucked away in a bag that Sabine has promised she’ll discard in the bakery’s garbage. The volunteers are here, working obediently on fundraising calls as the others sit rigidly at their cubicles and pretend they aren’t glancing back at the candidate’s office, over and over again.

 

Except for Emma, who sits in her chair with her knees up to her chin and her eyes blank as they stare into space. Regina wrenches her eyes away from Emma, frustrated with herself.

 

The world is still turning, though it feels very much like it’s on fire.

 

She has no one to blame but herself. She’s been dancing on the edge of a fraying tightrope for weeks now, since the moment she’d decided to work on the giveaway with Emma. They’ve been growing closer and closer, joined by idealism and attraction and something deeper and more frightening, and Regina had done nothing to stop it, nothing to consider Neal in this equation. And now, it’s all out in the open and she knows she’s to blame.

 

The others’ eyes flicker to her after they glance back at the office, and Regina knows there’s judgment beneath their looks, an undercurrent of _I told you so_. Jacinda and Sabine had warned her what might come of this, and she can’t meet their eyes, can’t see what she knows will be knowing, pitying looks.

 

She can’t–

 

She stands in a rush of movement and strides to the candidate’s office, desperate to _do_ something.

 

It’s only once she’s inside and shuts the door that she realizes their mistake. The office hadn’t been decorated with photos, but it features one large one on the back of the door, visible when it’s closed. It’s Emma and Regina outside the bakery on their way back from the office one night, Emma’s eyes dancing as she thrusts a beignet nearly into Regina’s mouth. Regina is smiling at her in the picture, the affection in her eyes undeniable.

 

Neal is on the floor, staring at the picture with his eyes glazed over, and Regina snatches it from the wall and crumples it, hurling it into the trash can. She steps over, out of range of the curious stares from the outer office, and struggles to find the right words.

 

Neal, Emma– they’re both so _good_ at helping her find the right words, at saying exactly what she needs to to sway an electorate. Today, she has nothing, and neither do they.

 

“You all must think I’m an idiot,” Neal says suddenly, looking up at her. “There are so many– I keep running through all of them in my mind. When you two were dancing at the fundraiser. The necklace. That _thing_ on the slide. I thought you might have liked her,” he admits. “I didn’t think there were _feelings_ .” He shakes his head, his eyes red-rimmed and his face agonized. “I was so _stupid_.”

 

“You trusted us,” Regina says, and she wants to sink to the ground next to him, to go back to being a kid locked in her room with the only boy in the world who’d seen her. “That doesn’t make you stupid.”

 

Neal laughs bitterly. “Doesn’t it?”   

 

Regina looks down, her heart clenched and tight, beating like a hard fist against her ribs. There are no words that can exonerate her, no excuses that are sufficient to explain her decisions. She’d fucked up, and now she has to face it, has to come to terms with what she’s done to one of the most important relationships she has.

 

Neal studies her, his eyes narrowed and the sheer betrayal still raw within them. Regina flinches, her heart still pounding, and Neal says, “Do you love her?” He’d been furious and belligerent when it had been Robin Locksley who’d hurt them, who’d hurt Regina. Now, he’s dull and broken, the anger simmering but the hopelessness stronger.

 

Regina clears her throat, forces the words out. “I know what those pictures are implying, but they’re– that’s all there was. Some chemistry between us.” She thinks it’s prudent to wait on the revelation about what had happened primary night for now, until tempers have cooled. “Emma wasn’t cheating on you. It wasn’t like that–”

 

“Do you love her?” Neal repeats, hard and demanding. It’s a tone from him that she’s never had directed at her before, and she hates how it makes her feel, as though she’s only a stranger to him.

 

She deserves his ire and hurt this time, no matter their history. And he deserves the truth, as deeply lodged within her heart as it is. “Yes,” she whispers. “I think I do.”

 

Neal just watches her. “Of course you do,” he says hopelessly. “She’s fun. Funny. Sensitive and idealistic, though she likes to pretend she’s jaded. She’s got this charisma where everyone can’t help but love her–” And tears are streaming down Regina’s face, Emma Swan still firmly lodged in her heart, an _idiot_ who could light up her whole world effortlessly and still have energy left to keep them fighting.

 

Neal isn’t crying, but his voice is hollow, and he looks as though he might be close to it. He looks defeated, broken, and Regina can’t seem to stop the flow of tears. “I didn’t _want_ to,” she says, shuddering. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want to fall in love with her. I fought it every step of the way. It’s been…it’s been _hell_ , knowing how I felt and how it would never– that I would never do anything about it. Because of you. Because I love you,” she whispers wetly. “You’re my _brother_.”

 

“Stepbrother,” Neal says, and there is something damning in that _step_ , in that reminder that there is no blood they share. He seems to know it, too, is just as shattered by it, and Regina shakes her head.

 

“You were always my brother,” she says with conviction, and Neal shakes his head, looks frustrated and lost in the face of her tears.

 

He finally clears his throat, his voice as watery as hers. “I need–”

 

“Whatever it is, I can do it for you,” Regina says desperately. “Just name it. Anything that can– can fix this–”

 

“Time,” Neal finishes, and Regina stops, stymied. She likes _fixing_ , likes moving forward and taking action and actually doing something about problems when they arise. She’s never been very good at giving anything time when she can drive forward instead, push and push until there is resolution.

 

Neal, however, has never been in the same rush. He smiles sadly at her, as though he can sense her impatience, and says, “I think that’s fair to ask, isn’t it?”

 

Of course it is, much as it rankles, and Regina nods shakily. “Do you…what do you want from me in the meantime?” she whispers, swiping uselessly at her tears. “If you need me to…to give you space, or to ask Emma to…” The idea fills her with horror and dismay, and she doesn’t know what she’d do, if Neal chooses to take out his anger with the situation on Emma. “If you need to take a hiatus from the campaign–” she says instead of what she’d begun, and Neal tilts his head and watches her in silence.

 

“Time,” he says finally. “I just want some time.” He turns away from her, and it takes every ounce of Regina’s willpower to stop pushing and walk to the door again.

 

Everyone’s eyes are on her as she emerges, her face still wet and tear-streaked, and she glares sightlessly at them and makes a break for the bathroom. She washes off her face, cleaning off half her makeup in the process, and she looks very small in the mirror, vulnerable and young as she so rarely allows herself to be.

 

 _Enough_ . She has to do _something_ , and there is one person she can push right now. She reapplies her makeup, heavy and strong as a shield, and she says, “I’m going out,” daring the others with her eyes to stop her.

 

No one does, and she strides down Main Street, finding confidence in the way her heels click against the sidewalk and her hair bounces in the wind. She isn’t going to let Mother’s newest veiled threat– newest attack on her relationship with Neal– to succeed in breaking her. Mother has tried to break her too often over the years for this to work _now_ , when Regina is finally fighting back.

 

She’s Regina Mills, candidate for Storybrooke mayor, and she will not let this upheaval in her personal life distract her from the facts of the situation.

 

She walks to Gold-Mills Consulting and then right past it, stopping two buildings down in front of the large sign marking the building as **_THE DAILY MIRROR_ ** . Furious and confident, she shoves the door open and strides inside, turning an imperious stare on the intern at the front desk. “I want Sidney Glass,” she orders. “ _Now_.”

 

She’s ushered in a few minutes later, and she walks with barely-contained rage to Sidney’s office, slamming the door closed before she whirls around to face him and bites out, “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

 

Sidney watches her, implacable, and she says, each word soft and dangerous, “You’re working for my mother. And it wasn’t just a one-time gig at the club. You’ve been _stalking_ me. Taking photos of me– you were the one who put them up on the walls, too. I thought you were my _friend_.” The tone falters at that, can no longer be quite as harsh, and Sidney only looks at her.

 

“Odd,” he says slowly. “I thought I was your beard.” It’s stated simply, cold and stark, and Regina stares at him with building trepidation. “All those events you’d invite me to– all those lunches together– you’ve been using me all this time, haven’t you?”

 

And then it all makes horrifying sense. Mother hadn’t needed to out her to the world to strike this blow. All she’d needed to do was… “My mother told you that I’m a lesbian,” she says, shaking her head. “And you…that was it? We couldn’t be friends anymore if there was no relationship in the cards?”

 

“Oh, don’t play games with me,” Sidney says, his lip curling. “Don’t act as though you didn’t know that I was interested in you. You’ve been manipulating me for years, leading me on as though someday– if I did enough for you– you might actually _want_ me. I supported your campaign. I escorted you to a dozen dinners where you needed a guest. I did _everything_ for you, and you– you never bothered to mention that you weren’t even interested in _men_ –”

 

Regina stares at him, her anger still hot but guilt threatening to wash over it. Because yes, she has kind of fed Sidney’s crush for years, had known about his crush and used it when necessary. But Sidney has no right to be _angry_ about it when there had never been any conditionals there, any offers of something more than friendship. “I didn’t think it was relevant,” she says coldly. “I didn’t promise you anything.”

 

Sidney shakes his head. “You never _said_ anything, but it was implied in every dinner. In every call. In every time we– I’ve been defying Cora Mills for this whole _election_ for you–”

 

“Because we’re _friends!_ ” Regina says in frustration. “Because I thought you might value our friendship beyond some fucking _crush_ that you had on me when I was a kid–” She’s too fragile for this conversation, for another man in her life betrayed by feelings she can’t control. “I’ve been grateful for all your help. I have been. And I’ve _never_ said anything that might have– that would have implied–” To her horror, she can feel her mask crumpling again, the tears threatening to fall in front of Sidney. “I didn’t–”  

 

She turns away, but it’s too slowly, and he catches sight of her tears. “Regina,” he says, and he circles his desk and is standing beside her in a moment. “I didn’t do this to hurt you. It was just business.”

 

She can feel the tears in her eyes, can feel them hot as though her eyes are blazing, and the intensity of her gaze burns into Sidney. “Bullshit,” she spits out, and the tears make her strong, make her angry. “You did this to hurt me. My mother told you I wasn’t interested in you, and you wanted to punish me.”

 

“I _didn’t_ ,” Sidney says hastily, guilty at last. “I put up those photos last night. Your mother asked me for the digital copies and I refused to hand them over and did it myself. I didn’t trust her with them. I didn’t want her to post them in every newspaper on the Internet. I just…” He looks defensive, embarrassed and guilty. “You and that Swan girl…”

 

“You were jealous,” Regina says blankly, finally piecing it together. “So you came up with a hundred justifications about me _leading you on_ .” She rustles through her bag, finds a few of the pictures that she’d held onto and holds them up. “I could go to David Nolan right now. Tell him you’ve been stalking me. Get a restraining order or have you arrested or just publicly humiliate you enough that the _Daily Mirror_ will be the laughingstock of the town.”

 

Sidney waits, his eyes fearful as it begins to dawn on him the power that Regina now holds over him. She doesn’t want it, feels sick with the realization that she now has another kind of ownership over Sidney, and he ventures, “Will you?”

 

It’s a threat he recognizes, that anyone who works with Cora Mills will recognize. Tactically, it’s what Mother would do, control someone with blackmail she never has to vocalize. Punish him for ever having the temerity to believe he could have her.

 

But she doesn’t want to be Mother, to have people under her thumb and rule them by fear. And she _does_ like Sidney, even if she’d made the mistake of taking his loyalty for granted for too long. “No,” she says, dropping the pictures to the ground and meeting his eyes deliberately, the message clear in her gaze. “I wouldn’t do that to a friend.”

 

He sags at the overture that is just as much a threat, and she bites her lip, on edge with the weight of Mother’s influence. “Don’t ever fucking work against me with my mother again,” she says fiercely. “I’ll destroy you.”

 

Sidney had been out of line, had done enough to be branded the villain of this piece no matter what missteps Regina had made. And _politics_ means that she needs him as an ally, that she can’t crush him the way that part of her is screaming that she must. But she isn’t fool enough to lose sight of who it is who is her real nemesis.

 

Her mother had sent her a message this morning, a clear retaliation for winning over Zelena and a reminder. _I can break you_ , Cora Mills is saying with every photo that had chased Neal from Regina, with her manipulation of Sidney and with shattering the trust between them. _I can take away everything_.

 

Regina leaves the newspaper building and pauses outside Gold-Mills Consulting, staring up at the second-floor windows where she knows her mother’s office is. It doesn’t take long before Mother looks out the window, her eyes finding Regina on the sidewalk. Regina meets her gaze evenly, her eyes boring into Mother’s, and she doesn’t move until an unpleasant smile curls onto Mother’s face.

 

She stands with the same deliberation as Regina had, moves forward toward the window, and someone else in the room shifts forward with her movement. It’s enough that Regina can see a familiar profile, the golden hair and startled eyes, and she sees red.

 

* * *

 

On the list of monumentally stupid things that Emma has done in her life, running out of the office to go take out her frustrations on Cora Mills is near the top of the list. She’d gone the moment that Regina had left, determined to put a stop to the woman’s vindictive conquest of Regina’s life.

 

And if she’s honest, she’d been desperate for a fight. Regina won’t talk to her. Neal hasn’t left the office since he’d found out about the pictures. Emma is floating, rootless, and there is very little to ground her. A fight would give her the grounding she needs.

 

Maybe a _fistfight_ , anyway, not this clash that is more like running headlong into traffic. “You thought…what?” Cora says silkily, standing opposite her with her eyes cool. “You could charge in here and tell me how to mother my daughter? You’ve never been a mother. You’ve never even been a daughter.”

 

It’s as vicious as Regina had been, back when she’d only wanted to hurt Emma. Regina had done it without this calm finesse, had been angry and burning with it. Cora hasn’t even seen fit to be annoyed about this. “You should be thanking me,” she says, placid. “I put a stop to all your absurd dancing around my daughter. Now, you can see for yourself what I do.”

 

“See that you’re a piece of–”

 

Cora’s eyes glitter. “See all the little ways that you’re going to drag her down,” she says. “What do you think comes next, dear? You’re going to fall madly in love and live happily ever after? Who _are_ you?” In that _are_ , Emma can hear the sheer disdain, the disbelief that Emma might ever believe that she’s worthy of Regina.

 

She has no response for that, no counter for the truth of the matter that Regina is from a different world, and that Emma is only an orphan outsider with none of Regina’s pedigree.

 

Cora knows she’s scored a hit, and she smiles, turning deliberately from Emma to walk to the window. “Someday, Regina will understand how much of what I sacrifice is for her– for her success. For her _future_. She will rise and rise if she only grasps that she’ll have to let go of the silly things holding her back.”

 

Emma follows her, still undeterred. “Silly things?” she echoes. “What? Her _sexuality_ ?” Cora only inclines her head, and Emma’s eyes narrow. “Go to hell,” she snaps out. “You would force her to spend her life _miserable_ if you were able to, if it meant she’d be–”

 

She stops, staring out the window and catching sight of what it is that Cora is staring at. Regina is standing on the sidewalk outside, her eyes flashing as she watches Emma, and Emma swallows.

 

She’s in _deep shit_.

 

“Let me be perfectly honest with you, Ms. Swan,” Cora says, wheeling around as Regina stalks forward to the door to the building. “Regina is twenty-five years old. She’s still young enough that she sees inconsequential little _quirks_ like this…phase of hers…as something worth sacrificing her future for. But in five years? In ten, when she’s still in the same place with some new, idealistic girl holding her back?” Her lip curls. “She will regret the years she’d spent fighting me. A little short-term infatuation is never going to be enough.” _You will never be enough_ , written in bold red letters across the sky above them.

 

Emma flinches, and Cora looks triumphant. There are voices in the hall, Regina’s velvety in its fury, and Emma swallows past the sudden flare of pain and says, “Doesn’t it matter to you that…you’re her _mother_. And she still loves you, and you keep hurting her. Someday, you’re going to push too hard and lose her.”

 

“And you will ruin her,” Cora says coldly. “I want to gift Regina the entire world. What will she be left with after you?”

 

The door to the office, half-closed, flies open, and Regina storms in, furious. Her eyes are sharp on Emma, flashing as she takes her in, and she grits her teeth and bites out, “Get out.”

 

Emma doesn’t move. “I’m not leaving you alone with–”

 

“Get _out_ ,” Regina repeats, eyes dark and dangerous. “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing here? What are you trying to accomplish in– in interfering with this–” She gulps in a breath and then says, her voice as cold as her mother’s, “Leave. My relationship with my mother is none of your business, no matter how many pictures there are of us– of us–”

 

“Oh, my dear,” Cora coos as Regina wavers, and Emma glares at Cora in deep disgust.

 

Regina shakes her head and straightens, her fingers pressed to her sides. Her knuckles are white from the force of it, Regina holding back more than she ever has around others. “You don’t talk to me after what you did–”

 

“I did nothing,” Cora says, and Regina scoffs.

 

“I spoke to Sidney. I know you were behind–”

 

Cora smiles thinly. “Am I at fault for your own missteps now, darling?” she says. “Did I force you to cross these lines with your little _friend_ here?” Regina stands stock-still, ignoring Emma’s sharp intake of breath. Cora’s gaze is cutting. “You did this to my _dear_ stepson,” she says, a touch of irony to her voice. “You hurt Neal all on your own. And you can blame me for calling his attention to it, or you can face the truth. Your little flirtation is no one’s fault but your own, Regina.”

 

Regina is silent now. She doesn’t budge, but she has no more responses for her mother, and Emma tenses and prepares to step in with something unwanted.

 

Cora knows she’s been victorious, and her eyes gleam with it as she turns to Emma. “And you…” she says, smug. “Do you really believe that Regina, given the choice between hurting her brother even more and you, will ever choose you? Do you truly believe that you have any future in this town now?” Emma glares at her in stubborn silence, and Cora waves a hand. “Regina has already said it. Get _out_.”

 

Regina is silent, her face unreadable, and Emma is frozen with the painful awareness that she has no allies in this room. Regina is trapped between those photos and Neal right now, desperate to make things right with him and icing Emma out. Emma had expected it, though she’d also expected Regina to lash out, to blame her for all of it. Emma is the one _in_ the relationship, after all.

 

Emma had wanted a fight with Regina, too, a way for them to air all their frustrations at what they haven’t talked about. Instead, she’s only gotten silence and one missive, repeated by Cora. _Get out_.

 

And so, in that oppressively tense room, with Cora looming over them and Regina looking trapped, Emma finally listens and flees.

 

* * *

 

It should only take a few minutes to pack her things, but it’s been hours and she’s still sitting on the floor of the bedroom with her backpack, alternately folding clothes and staring into space. She’s gotten a few texts– from Mulan, surprisingly, who offers her the guest room in her house and a listening ear. Ruby has called once, but Emma hadn’t picked up.

 

She doesn’t know what to say to any of these girls, who had been friends– or at least colleagues– until today. She’d been one of the group– had fought hard to be taken seriously, to be seen as someone other than Neal’s girlfriend, someone with something to offer. Now, abruptly, the relationship must be over, and everyone will be caught in the middle of a three-way conflict.

 

Regina and Neal will work through the conflict, Emma knows. They’re forever intertwined, family in a way that Emma’s never known. They’ll suffer without each other and then return again, the cause of their conflict long gone. Regina and Neal are always going to have each other, and will bounce back for it.

 

Emma will be long gone by then.

 

She shoves her clothes into her backpack, then surveys the mess of cosmetics and beanies on the dresser. Everything is scooped up, bagged carefully and tucked into the cocoon of clothes. The only thing of hers that remains on the dresser is a single jewelry box.

 

Emma stares at it until her eyes blur and she’s clutching onto the snowflake necklace that belongs inside it, her legs wobbling. This necklace has taken on more meaning than it ever should have, first as a sign that she belongs with Neal, then as…as…  

 

She’d been so angry, then so touched, that Regina had gotten it for her. It had been a manipulative move that had been in good faith, and Regina can’t explain to her why she’d done it. Emma had wanted to believe that it had been– something profound, some bond between them that might have even been _feelings_ , but now she only feels naive.

 

She’d _known_ that this would never go anywhere, that this was a campaign almost-romance that she’d leave behind forever. And yet, tears burn at the back of her throat as she removes the necklace and sets it down in its box, leaving it on the dresser for Neal to someday return to Regina.

 

She won’t be here when that happens. Here, she will only hold Regina and Neal back from reconciling. Here, even if Regina ever does choose her, Cora is right. Emma will only hold Regina back. Emma will never be enough for someone like Regina.

 

“Stupid–!” She slams her hand on the dresser in a sudden fury at herself– for playing this game with Regina, for developing _feelings_ for Regina, for going to Cora’s office today to hear all the truths she’d refused to contemplate until now–

 

The box with the necklace flies off the dresser and to the floor in front of the doorway, and someone scoops it up.

 

“Yeah, I know.” It’s Neal, standing in the doorway with the jewelry box in his hand and weariness written across his face. “I’m an idiot. We’ve established that _plenty_ today.” They stand in awkward silence for a moment, and Neal says finally, “I’m not gonna kick you out. This is…this is your place, too. I can just go back to my dad’s house–”

 

“With Cora there?” Emma says skeptically, her skin crawling at the idea of Neal so vulnerable to Regina’s mother.

 

“His other house,” Neal clarifies, because of _course_ his father has two houses. He shakes his head. “I just…I don’t even know what the fuck I’m supposed to _do_ with this mess. What were you going to do, have some secret affair with my stepsister? Would we have been married with kids and you’d be holding hands with her under the table?” His voice is caustic, as self-effacing as it is frustrated and angry with her. “How did you see any of this–?”  

 

“I was going to break up with you after the election,” Emma says blankly. “And then leave town before Regina could murder me for it. I thought that would…that would be the most painless way.”

 

“Painless,” Neal echoes sardonically. “For everyone except the idiot who was in love with you.” He blinks, startling suddenly as though he’d just remembered something, and he shakes his head. “So everyone’s miserable?”

 

“So Regina would be mayor,” Emma shoots back, clutching onto her backpack. “And none of this would interfere with the campaign.”

 

“So much for _that_ ,” Neal says, and Emma is silent. “I was so happy when you and Regina started getting along.” He laughs bitterly. “I thought it was a sign that I’d finally found the _one_ . Maybe I found Regina’s _one_ instead. _Dammit_ !” He whirls around, slams his hand against the door, and then twists around to glare at her. “What the _hell_ , Emma? What were you even _doing_ here? Were you only with me for _Regina_? We were good together!”

 

“I’m sorry,” Emma says, guilty at his desperate frustration. “I really am. But I couldn’t– I can’t _help_ having _feelings_. What was I supposed to do? How do I turn those off?”

 

Neal shakes his head. “Did you even _want_ to?” he demands, and Emma stares at him, incapable of answering the question.

 

No, she hadn’t wanted to turn off her feelings. She _likes_ who she is when she’s around Regina, when she feels like she’s smart and capable and worth trusting. Life may have been easier if she hadn’t developed feelings– if she hadn’t discovered that she’s attracted to women, and to Regina in particular– but she can’t bear the thought of giving up any of it willingly.

 

Giving it up willingly is no longer an option, anyway. “I think I should go,” she says, grabbing her backpack and hoisting it over her shoulder.

 

Neal shakes his head, frustrated and angry but also too caring to let her leave like this. “Emma, you _live_ here. You don’t have anywhere else to go.”

 

“Mulan offered me a room,” Emma mumbles, as though she’d responded to the text. “I’ll just…go there. Figure out what I’m gonna do. You don’t have to worry about it.” She brushes past him, looking up to see the torment in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says again, and she means it. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

 

“Fine,” Neal says, and it’s cold and hurt, meant to inflict some of the pain he’s feeling on her. “Go. Run. It’s what you do best.”

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t want to get into her car right now. The Bug had been her car with Neal, all those years ago, and she doesn’t want to think about Neal right now. Their breakup had been inevitable, as far as she’d been concerned, but she hadn’t wanted to _hurt_ him. She cares about him, could maybe even love him like a brother.

 

And she’d hurt him. She’d hurt him and damaged his relationship with Regina, both of which are so unimaginably cruel that she hates herself a little bit for them. She’s been poison to this campaign, just as Regina had accused her on primary night. She’s been poison to _Regina_ , to Neal, and everything she’s done for the campaign is meaningless if she continues to spread that poison to them moving forward.

 

She walks aimlessly instead, up and down the streets of Storybrooke as the sky begins to darken and rain begins to fall, and she makes light conversation with Lost Boys and others she bumps into. They don’t ask her about the backpack she wears, and she doesn’t offer any explanation even when she sees their curious looks. This is a small town– not as tiny as it had once seemed to her, but small enough that everyone seems to know her.

 

She just wants some quiet, and she walks to the far ends of town, along the beach and onto the path that winds through the woods until it’s dark and quiet on Main Street in the rain. Only then does she sink onto the bench in front of the campaign office, Regina’s smile hanging above her, and tug out her phone.

 

She has a few texts from Jacinda, simple reminders that she’s here if Emma wants to talk about any of this. There’s an invitation to sleep on her couch, too, and Emma’s eyes blur as she scrolls down her notifications, sees more texts from Mulan and one from Ruby, finds a voicemail from Marian and a missed call from Sabine.

 

 _Friends_ , then, instead of just colleagues. People who aren’t letting her hide away, who haven’t written her off. Emma blinks and blinks away tears as she curls up on the bench, hugging her phone to her and letting herself doze.

 

 _Go. Run. It’s what you do best_ . It’s what _is_ best, leaving the campaign before she shatters its foundations any more than she already has. _Get out_ , Regina had said. Neal and Regina want her gone, and that’s more than enough for Emma to want to run. _Go. Run. It’s what you do best_. She could flee this town, be nothing more than an amusing memory of that one time Regina had had a crush on Neal’s girlfriend. Hurricane Emma, another blonde who’d wreaked havoc through their lives.

 

It’s easier to be a memory than it is to try to fix the impossible, and she rests her head against her backpack as the rain casts huge droplets upon her, too exhausted to think about leaving town tonight.

 

Tomorrow, then, before anyone wakes up. She’s overstayed her welcome in this town. It’s time to go.

 

* * *

 

It’s bright and early when she awakens– or maybe just bright, because the sky is still dark and the light comes from the flashlight glaring in her face. Emma blinks, squinting in the light to see who’s been shaking her gently.

 

“Emma,” a vaguely familiar voice says. “Emma, you can’t be out here.”

 

It’s still raining hard, and she’s drenched and tired, too exhausted to respond. She shivers instead, cold in the early autumn chill, and she uncurls herself from her backpack to blink up at the man in question.

 

 _Oh_. Sheriff Nolan is standing over her, and he looks sympathetic when he sees how bedraggled she is. “Come on,” he says gently. “There are beds at the station.”

 

There isn’t much she can do to fight him, and she stands up, wrapping her arms around herself as she follows him across the street to the station. “Are you…are you arresting me?” she asks.

 

Sheriff Nolan shakes his head. “You haven’t done anything illegal,” he says, slipping his jacket off and putting it around her. She shivers uncontrollably, pulling it closer as she walks with him. “But it’s cold and wet out here. Weren’t you living with Neal Gold?”

 

“We broke up. I left,” Emma says simply. The rain is coming down harder, and Sheriff Nolan ushers her into the station, flicking on the lights as soon as the doors are open. “Were you about to leave for the day?” she says, feeling guilty. “I’m fine. I don’t need you to–”

 

“It’s all right,” the sheriff says soothingly. “I was patrolling. Ruby used to help out with the night shifts, but she’s been putting a lot of full time hours at the diner lately, so it’s all me. And if I don’t pull it off, the county sends in their people, and…” He sighs. “I’ve been thinking about it more since your campaign began. I don’t know if bringing in county cops is the best idea. I _know_ these families, you know?”

 

“Yeah,” Emma murmurs, too cold and wet to be thinking very much about what he’s saying. Sheriff Nolan finds a blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders.

 

“Sit,” he says, urging her into his chair. It’s big enough for her to curl into it, burrowing into the blanket and staring up at him as he walks to the water cooler and switches on the hot water. He pulls out a little packet of cocoa and shakes it into a mug, then adds hot water. “My wife always insists that there’s nothing that some hot cocoa with a hint of cinnamon can’t fix,” he says, passing her the mug.

 

It strikes Emma as absurd but so very Mary Margaret Blanchard, and she huddles over the mug, letting it warm her fingers. “Thank you,” she says, biting her lip. “I really…this is really nice of you.” She closes her eyes and exhales for what feels like the first time all day, and she’s suddenly crying silently, miserable and guilty.

 

Sheriff Nolan pulls up a chair next to her, a mug of his own in his hands, and he doesn’t say a word, only waits. She ducks her head, unwilling to speak at first, tears slipping into her cocoa. Eventually the silence becomes unbearable. “I have been… _awful_ to everyone I care about,” she blurts out. It’s the newest strain of thought that she can’t escape, the truth that she’s been trying to deny for weeks. “Just dragging on this terrible _sham_ of a relationship because I was so desperate to stay. To…to have a place to fucking _belong_. Sorry, Sheriff,” she says hastily, regretting her language.

 

He just tilts his head. “Call me David,” he murmurs, and he waits again, silent but attentive.

 

Emma stares out at the station, the cluttered desk and shelves that make it feel more like a home office than a government building. Regina will absolutely demand it made professional again. “I’ve never belonged anywhere before,” she whispers, and the tears slide down her face again.

 

She’d spent a childhood dreaming of family, of a place to come home to that would feel real and permanent. She’d never gotten it, and after Neal, she’d vowed never even to let herself hope for it. And then Neal had come back into her life and she’d had a _person_ , someone to come home to. She’d had a family in campaign headquarters, women who’d looked after her and cared about her.

 

And Regina.

 

Regina is all those things wrapped in one, is family and home and someone for whom alone Emma’s heart seems to beat. And Emma had gotten drunk on the idea of _home_ , of belonging and love and family, and she’d prolonged a relationship that had only caused Regina pain. That now is causing Neal pain as well. She’d been so _selfish_ , determined to settle for Neal while she’d had these feelings for Regina. And running away might be another selfish option– it’s par for the course for Emma Swan, who runs away whenever anything gets too intense– but it’s her _only_ option, her only way to _stop screwing everything up_.

 

“Because you can’t screw anything up if you don’t have anyone to screw things up for?” David suggests, cutting into Emma’s rambling. Emma flushes. David clears his throat. “I do know that Regina is…I know her preferences are…” He looks abashed. “She might care just as much for you as you do her,” he finally manages.

 

Emma laughs wetly. “Yeah,” she says, but it’s hard to justify that thought– to justify every fraught conversation they’ve had as more than they’d been. Regina might have complicated feelings for Emma, but they won’t last if Emma removes herself from the equation. She’s been cared about before, just as fleetingly, until there are reasons to send her back to the group homes, to– “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she says, huddling deeper into her blanket. “I’m going to take the first bus out in the morning and get out of everyone’s hair.”

 

A thought occurs to her, an unfinished task. “Can you– can I just write some notes for you to give Regina in the morning? We had a few calls about the upcoming debate that I wanted to return–” She fumbles for her phone, searching for the notes she’d jotted down, and she looks up.

 

David is watching her with quiet, wise grey eyes, and he says, “You know, I actually grew up on a farm in the Catskills with my mother. Down in New York,” he says, gesturing vaguely in what might be that direction. “We were pretty settled there. No money, the farm draining our bank account, but we were determined to stay. Then one day, a bus from one of the local summer camps has engine trouble outside my farm. And this pretty camp counselor from Maine just…throws me for a loop.” He shakes his head, eyes wistful with affection even now. “Before Mary Margaret, I never imagined that we could pick up and start a whole new life in a new town. Once you have those roots, they’re hard to yank out of the ground without help.”

 

“I don’t have roots,” Emma says, shaking her head. “I’ve never– I don’t do roots.” She’s lying to herself now, denying what she’s already conceded too many times, and she swallows. “I mean– they’re not _real_ . People will notice when I’m gone, probably. But they’ll move on. They’ll forget me soon enough. They don’t _need_ me.” She has good ideas for the campaign. But she isn’t the only one, and the others will do fine without her. Regina will do fine without her, no matter what is between them now. Everyone always does. “I’m not…I’m not the kind of person people hold onto.”

 

Neal had held onto her for five years, and it had been enough to forgive the unforgivable. She’d made so many mistakes because of it, had lingered for too long with someone she hadn’t wanted, had persuaded herself that she could do it forever. One person who cares about her, and she becomes a pathetic _mess_ who’d hurt everyone around her for it.

 

She manages a watery smile at David. “It’s okay,” she says. “It’s better this way.”

 

“For who?” David says, and it’s gentle but unrelenting. “Because the station is right across from your campaign headquarters. I’ve been at every event you’ve done on town property. And I’ve never seen a single sign that your friends would be better without you.”

 

Emma stares into her cocoa. David suggests kindly, “You know, if you’ve never had those roots before, it might take some time to recognize them.” Emma refuses to answer, to accept words that she craves, an overture she’s been given too many times to have it snatched away. David smiles at her, his eyes crinkling with the smile. “And you should know that I wasn’t meant to patrol tonight, Emma. The town has been quiet since the Lost Boys focused their energies on your campaign.

 

Emma blinks. “If you’re going to try to…to frame this as a coincidence that’s some kind of _sign_ –”

 

David laughs. “Regina Mills gave me a frantic call about you a half hour ago,” he says, and Emma stares up at him, her heart in her throat. “I think you may underestimate just how much your friends want you around.”

 

Regina had called David for her– had found out that she hadn’t been where she’d been supposed to be and had– Emma squeezes her eyes shut, her fingers trembling around her mug, craving Regina’s presence with every fiber of her being. “I…I…”

 

David grasps what it is she isn’t saying. “Of course,” he says, rising to his feet and holding out a hand to her. She untangles herself from the blanket, but he shakes his head. “Keep it. Your clothes are soaked.”

 

He watches her as they leave the station, and he says suddenly. “Do you have any experience with law enforcement?”

 

She blinks at him. “Like…positive experience? Not really.” Not before today, anyway.

 

David huffs out a little laugh and shakes his head. “I have run your record. Not what I meant.” Emma blinks again, bewildered at this change in topic, and David clears his throat. “I’ve seen what you’ve done with the Lost Boys and the campaign, and I’ve been impressed.” He lays a hand on her shoulder. “Look me up if you decide to stick around, Emma. We could use someone like you at the station.”

 

 _Roots_ , again, pervasive and threatening in a way that she can’t verbalize. David wants her at the _station_ , one of the core sources of what has gone wrong in Storybrooke. Even with her record. Even with the pathetic picture she must make right now. Emma swallows. “I’ll…I’ll keep that in mind,” she manages, and she wraps the blanket around herself and steps from the station.

 

* * *

 

Tamara has come and gone, just as Marian and Jacinda and Sabine have. Regina had sent Tamara to Neal. “He needs someone more than _I_ do,” she’d scoffed, shrugging her off. “I’m fine. I’m not the injured party here.”

 

None of them had been persuaded by that insistence. They’re good friends to her, more than she’d ever expected from them, and they’re all dealing with this nightmarish situation with aplomb. “It was bound to happen eventually,” Sabine says frankly. “And, I mean…I feel bad for Neal, but he had to have seen this coming.”

 

Jacinda had just sighed and wrapped her hands around Regina’s. “Emma isn’t answering her phone,” she’d said, and Regina hadn’t known how to respond to _that_. She’d snapped at Emma earlier, had been harsh in her furious panic at seeing Mother so close to Emma, and she knows that Emma is in a fragile place now.

 

Tamara had reported back that Emma’s car is at Neal’s and Emma is at Mulan’s, but Mulan had confirmed by text that she isn’t. Regina had panicked, expecting the worst, and had called David Nolan and humiliated herself by begging him to find Emma. For nearly an hour, she lurches around her apartment, wringing her hands and peering out of windows as though she might catch sight of Emma.

 

Finally, she gives up. It’s pouring rain outside, and all she can think of is Emma at a bus stop somewhere, waiting to leave town as she shivers in the cold. _No._ Emma can’t…

 

 _Enough_ . Sheriff Nolan is an idiot, and Regina doesn’t have time to wait for him to get his act  together and find Emma. Emma could be getting _sick_ , she could be _attacked_ , she could be– Regina is moving across her apartment in a flash, reaching for her keys and then heading to the front closet to find the flashlight she keeps there. Another pause to think, and she’s searching for the warmest coat she has, much better than Emma’s thin faux-leather jackets.

 

She pulls it from its hanger when there’s a knock at her door. Heart leaping, she doesn’t stop to peer through the peephole or ask for a name. She tears the door open, flashlight and coat in hand.

 

Emma is on the other side of the door. “Hi,” she says, and she fidgets, looking very uncertain. Her clothes are soaked and she has a blanket wound around her shoulders, it doing very little to stop her shivering. Her face is wet, eyes red-rimmed and so deeply despairing that Regina can’t breathe. “I…I didn’t have anywhere to go.”  

 

Regina moves aside without a word, and Emma walks into the apartment, her red eyes lingering on the flashlight and winter coat that Regina still holds in her hands. Regina sets them down, feeling self-conscious. “I…” she starts, and then falters.

 

“I’ll be out of your hair soon,” Emma promises, the words emerging in a rush of emotion. “I promise. I’ll…roomie up with someone else while I figure out what I’m going to do next– I just didn’t– I wanted to–” She stops, freezing as though the enormousness of what she’s done has just set in. “Fuck,” she says. “I can’t put you in this…this situation–”

 

“Stay here,” Regina says, reaching for her arm to steady it. The touch seems to jolt a shock through Emma, who lets out a sob. Her skin is still damp, a slight shiver that doesn’t seem to lessen, and Regina swallows. “You have to get out of these clothes. You’ll catch your death of cold.” She leads Emma to her bedroom, pushing aside every thought that comes to her in that moment, and she digs through her dresser until she finds warm, flannel pajamas and some fuzzy socks that she’d bought once on a whim.

 

Emma just stands there, her movements stilted as she shivers violently, and Regina takes a step forward to stand opposite her, peeling off her jacket. “I’m…can I help you…” She laughs wetly. “This is _such_ a bad idea,” she murmurs, but Emma shakes her head, looking very helpless and lost.

 

“I thought you’d eviscerate me for…for breaking Neal’s heart,” Emma says, her eyes anguished. “It’s okay if you want to– if you want me gone–”

 

“Emma,” Regina whispers, her heart fluttering in her chest. It’s a bad time to notice that, with the jacket off, Emma’s shirt is clinging to her, displaying every curve and muscle, the shirt nearly translucent. It’s a _terrible_ time to be noticing any of this, and Regina tears her eyes from Emma’s shirt and catches her gaze instead. “I can’t fault _you_ for what we– for how we both–” She drops her head. “I’d have to eviscerate us both,” she says wryly, reaching up to brush Emma’s hair from her face. It’s wet and tangled, and it falls forward again as Emma’s head drops and she laughs.

 

The laughing turns to violent coughing, and Regina rubs Emma’s back as Emma coughs and coughs until she’s gagging. “I’m taking off your clothes,” Regina decides in determination, unbuttoning Emma’s jeans. Emma sucks in a loud breath, and Regina stops.

 

“It’s fine,” Emma says, her hands shaking as she attempts to yank down her jeans. “It’s not…it’s not like anything is going to _happen_ tonight. I just broke up with Neal–”

 

“You really broke up,” Regina says, staring at her. A part of her had wondered if they ever would, if Emma wouldn’t just shrug off the pictures or insist that they just needed a break. “I didn’t…I didn’t think anything could really keep you two apart for good.”

 

Emma manages to kick her pants off, then pull off her socks. She gives a choked laugh, tugging at her shirt as her hands shake uselessly. “I was going to break up with him anyway,” she admits, and Regina’s heart lurches with forbidden hope.

 

“You…you were?”  

 

Emma bobs her head, still struggling with her shirt. “After the campaign. I was going to break up with him and leave–”

 

“Leave?” Regina echoes, and she suddenly wants to throw up. “You were going to _leave_?” Of course. Emma is here for Neal, and without him, she has no reason to stay. Certainly not Regina, whose heart quakes, fragile as it hasn’t been in a long time.

 

Emma seems to see some of it in her eyes, because she looks contrite. “I didn’t want you to– I was trying to do right by you and Neal. I think I’ve hurt you both enough–” She laughs, but it’s dull and shaky. “I just wanted you to have your family.”

 

Regina can only stare at her, can feel the blood draining from her face. “You were going to leave?” she can only repeat accusingly, her heart beating so quickly that it’s a struggle to breathe. “Just…end things with Neal and run away?”

 

“Breaking Neal’s heart is unforgivable,” Emma retorts, her eyes pleading. “It’s what you always said. You weren’t going to make an exception for _me_.”

 

Regina sucks in a shaky breath. She’d had to insist a dozen times that breaking Neal’s heart is unforgivable, had spoken again and again about it and reminded herself of it to keep herself from acting on her feelings for Emma. And Emma, _idiotic_ , cowardly, noble Emma– Emma had taken it as reason enough to leave.

 

She closes her eyes, can feel frustrated, exhausted tears slip out from beneath her eyelids. “Emma,” she whispers, her voice choked, and all she can think of is the way that Emma had said _me_ , as though it is still, after all this time, unbelievable to think that she could be special. “I would make every exception under the sun for you.”

 

When she opens her eyes, Emma is staring at her, eyes wide and uncertain as she shivers, and Regina reaches out to lift her wet shirt from her skin. “Such a bad idea,” she mumbles to herself in a vain attempt to offset the tension in the room. Her fingers graze Emma’s skin, and Emma shivers again beneath her touch.

 

She slides the shirt up Emma’s abdomen, peeling it away from her skin, and Emma whispers, “Yeah.” Her eyes catch Regina’s and hold, their gazes locked. Regina is breathless, her knuckles running up Emma’s skin and pausing at the bottom of the swell of her breasts. “We can’t,” she says, even though they _can_ , they finally can, and Regina is almost shaking with the knowledge of just how attainable Emma has suddenly become. Emma swallows. “You’re…you’re not a _rebound_ ,” she murmurs.

 

“No,” Regina agrees, her eyes flickering from Emma’s eyes to the top of her shirt. “We’re…we’re adults. We aren’t going to _jump each other_ just because we’re both suddenly…suddenly single–”

 

Emma lifts her hands to let Regina pull the shirt off of her, and she says, breathless, “Yeah. Everything is up in the air right now, and it would be…so _dumb_ to– to–” Her hands are raised in the air, now, tangled in her shirt, and her eyes gleam with burning hunger that makes Regina’s knees weak. She isn’t shivering anymore, just shaking with something more. “To–”

 

Regina lurches forward and kisses her desperately. Emma stumbles back until Regina has her pinned to the wall, her hands on Emma’s above their heads, and Emma kisses her back just as ardently, with just as much desperation. “Thank _fuck_ ,” she gasps into the kiss, letting out a little whine at how Regina is holding up her hands. She wriggles them free of the shirt and then swoops forward, hands moving to cup Regina’s face.

 

For a moment, they pull apart, and Regina can only gaze at Emma, can admire her flushed face and the way her eyes seem to gleam. “I’ve wanted to do this again for…for so long,” Emma whispers, and there is no misery to her smile, only a glow that feels warmer than any winter coat that Regina could have fetched for her.

 

“It was all I could think of some days,” Regina admits, and she’s the one shivering now, slipping her hands to Emma’s hips, fingers toying with the ties on her panties. “Most days,” she says, and Emma leans over and sucks on her lower lip, her teeth nipping at it. Regina exhales, her heart quickening and her belly on fire. “Emma, _please_.”

 

She’s craved this for so long that every touch feels magnified, her skin sensitive to Emma in a way that she’s never been to anyone before and her heart skipping beats with every kiss. Emma kisses her again, her lips dragging down to Regina’s neck, and Regina winds against her, desperate for more.

 

Within moments, they’re on the bed, Emma still in her underwear and Regina fully clothed as they kiss, legs intertwining and Regina trembling for more. Emma hesitates, and Regina says quickly, “We don’t have to–”

 

“Shh,” Emma kisses her again, her tongue dipping into Regina’s mouth as Regina quivers. “I… _fuck_ , I need you,” she says fervently. A moment, and then uncertainty again. “I’ve just…I’ve never…”

 

 _Oh_. This is Emma’s first time with a woman, and Regina smiles up at her, her whole body coming alive with that. “Take your time,” she murmurs. “Explore. Do what makes you comfortable.”

 

Emma bites her own lip, then Regina’s, kissing her hard. Regina responds, and she can feel Emma’s hands running over her suit jacket, clutching the lapels to tug her close and then moving with lightning speed to her ass instead. “Oh,” she groans, squeezing at it, and Regina gasps with need, her body jerking toward Emma’s. Emma slides an experimental leg between Regina’s and Regina grinds against it, desperate to abate the aching at her center.

 

Still, she lays her hands down, letting Emma take the lead. Emma stares down at her, her eyes bright. “You have no idea how many fantasies I’ve had about you in this getup,” she breathes, her voice rough, and she rucks up Regina’s skirt even more, finding her thong with skilled fingers. Regina writhes against her, never more relieved that she’d shed her pantyhose already, and Emma slips a hand beneath the thong, palming her ass again. “You on the desk again– or _god_ , when you’d be standing in front of me lecturing me about something and I’d just want to–” She squeezes, pressing Regina against her leg again.

 

Regina arches against it, and Emma’s hand is suddenly gone, as quickly as it had come. “There’s also– that _shirt_ ,” she says, and both her hands are dipping beneath Regina’s jacket to fondle her breasts over her shirt. Regina strains against her, desperate for more, and Emma leans down to kiss the spot just above Regina’s bra, her tongue skimming along the swells of her breasts. “Buttons,” Emma mutters into her skin, fumbling at them, and Regina’s shirt is tossed away, landing on the floor, followed by her bra. “Fuck,” Emma whispers, gaping down at Regina’s chest with unvarnished awe.

 

“Emma,” Regina whimpers, craving her hands on her again, and Emma only stares, her eyes still fixed on Regina’s breasts.

 

“I think…I am _definitely_ sure I’m gay,” she says suddenly, and she lowers her mouth to one breast and licks the nipple experimentally, her hand falling to massage the other. Regina can’t lie still anymore, and her back arches against Emma’s touch, her hands moving to run over Emma’s back. She presses a hand to Emma’s hair, holding her in place as she sucks on the sensitive skin of Regina’s breast, and Emma is beginning to shake with her own need, writhing against Regina’s leg.

 

Regina moves her leg in quick, rhythmic movements, and Emma lets out a little moan, the sucking coming faster and harder in a pleasurable pain. She releases one breast to work on the other, and Regina sighs, tugging Emma up by the hair to kiss her again.

 

When Emma pulls away, it’s to slip Regina’s skirt off at last, clawing at it and yanking blindly as she stretches out on her back, and Regina shimmies out of it, moving against Emma’s body as she does. Her center is raw with desire, with the pressure beginning to build up deep within her, and Emma pulls at her thong as Regina yanks at her underclothes with the same ferocity, desperate to get to her.

 

It’s been months of this, of craving this and being lost to the reminder that she can never have it. And now, it’s all Regina is, flesh and breath and the movements of Emma’s hips as they jerk up toward her, and Regina cups Emma’s breasts and kisses her stomach, licks a trail down the musculature of her abdomen and almost moans at how Emma twitches beneath her. “Is this all right?” she whispers, kissing the narrow trail of light hair below her stomach.

 

In response, Emma’s arms tense and she flips them, Regina on her back as Emma squirms down her body. Regina falls back, her head propped up by her pillows, and Emma lifts her head to gaze silently at her before she gives Regina’s clit a lick.

 

Regina, oversensitized and desperately aroused, lets out a cry. Emma sighs in satisfaction, closes her lips around Regina’s clit and sucks it for a moment, and then she’s moving again, licking the area and then parting Regina’s vaginal lips to gaze at her in wonder. “Fuck,” she whispers to herself, and then, very suddenly, there are two fingers thrusting into Regina.

 

Regina cries out, aching with need, and Emma changes the pace, slowing down as her mouth works Regina’s clit and her fingers work inside her. “I could get used to this,” she gasps out. Regina’s thighs clamp around her, her fingers tangled in Emma’s hair, and she quivers and quivers until Emma adds a third finger and she’s shaking helplessly, on the cusp of coming. The buildup is strong, overwhelming, and it’s been so long since– she’s needed this for _months_ , with Emma more than anything–

 

Emma is twitching with her own need, is struggling to set Regina off, and Regina still _needs_ , still hasn’t come, and she has a sudden idea. “Wait,” she says, and Emma stops at once. “Turn around,” she says, and Emma blinks at her, a new flush of want rising to her cheeks as she grasps what Regina is saying. She stretches out along Regina’s body until her lips are pressed to Regina’s clit and her own center is bare, close enough that Regina can inhale the scent of it. “Follow my lead,” Regina murmurs, and she reaches out and captures Emma’s clit gently with her teeth.

 

Emma shakes beneath her, nearly thrashes, and then Regina is overcome with the same sensations. Regina breathes in Emma’s scent again and then slips her tongue into her, thrusting with it as Emma lets out a frenzied moan and does the same. There is a swooping sensation in Regina’s core, as though the floor has just dropped out from beneath her and she’s slipping, falling…

 

She licks Emma up and down like a kitten, kisses her center with her tongue and lips and feels the same happen to herself. Emma tastes like Regina could be there forever, that they could be wrapped up in each other in this bed for a dozen years and _to hell with the world, to hell with– with– with–_

 

And then, Emma plunges her fingers into Regina again, and Regina can’t think at all, her mind bursting into blinding fireworks as her body crashes over the edge, her release washing over her violently as she sucks on Emma’s clit until Emma does the same. Emma quakes. “ _Regina!_ ” And Regina comes harder and harder still, lights bursting behind her eyes as Emma pumps and pumps and comes and comes beneath her lips.

 

They’re back at it moments later. Their stolen moments have been so fragile until now, so close to a breaking point that every interaction had felt ephemeral, as quickly gone as it had come. This is the culmination months of pulling away, and Regina can’t ever pull away from Emma again, can only kiss her and kiss her until she can barely move, can only plunge into her with her fingers and her tongue, can only writhe against her until they’re both touching each other everywhere, memorizing the shape of the other’s body as though this can never end.

 

They make it across the room at one point late in the night, fumbling with each other and their lips still fused together as Regina searches blindly through a drawer for the toy she wants. Emma’s eyes light up when she sees it and she’s strapping it in place, thrusting wildly into Regina for what feels like an eternity, kissing her with renewed energy and coming again and again, indefatigable.

 

Regina wants to carve this image into her mind, Emma glowing and free as she pumps into Regina, her eyes bright and her heart displayed within it. There are no discussions of what awaits them in the morning and what will come next– no mentions of obstacles they can’t conquer just yet– only _them_ , moving together with fierce desire as the world around them fades away.

 

They come together again– “ _Emma,_ ” Regina gasps like a love song, and Emma has tears sliding down her cheeks– and then they’re finally done by silent agreement, the two of them slumped on sheets that Regina is absolutely going to have to wash soon as Regina tugs the blanket off the floor and over them.

 

Regina wraps Emma in her arms, holds her tight against her, and she murmurs, “That was…”

 

“Yeah,” Emma says, and she laughs, breathless still with it. “It really was.” She lifts her face to Regina, and Regina can already see the shadows beginning to return, the uncertainty and insecurity as they begin to set back in.

 

In the morning, they have a shattered campaign and a brother who must hate them both right now to deal with. In the morning, they might have to define this thing that has happened too soon, and not nearly soon enough. In the morning, they will have to leave this bed, consecrated with so much of who they are to each other.

  
For now, though, Regina can’t bear thinking of any of that. “Sleep,” she murmurs, kissing Emma’s brow– and there’s a great leaping of joy in her heart at the thought that she can kiss Emma’s brow _anytime_ now, that Emma is hers to love, maybe– and Emma closes her eyes, burrowing into Regina’s side with her lips against her skin.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to JS for some help with setting in this one!! And thank you to you all for the wonderful feedback last chapter!! I adore u all :')

**SEPTEMBER 5**

_ 61 Days Until the General Election _

 

There are eyes on her from the moment she walks into the office the next morning, a customary bag from Granny’s in hand. She’s late, but she’d known she would be, and everyone is already present at the office. Sabine and Jacinda are working on new online ads while Tamara stands over them, brow furrowed. Regina is bent over some of the debate prep with Marian, Roland perched on Mulan’s lap as he colors and she talks on the phone. Marian looks up when Emma walks in. Regina does not.

 

“Emma,” Marian says, and her smile is warm and genuine. “It’s good to see you.” 

 

“You disappeared on us,” Jacinda says. Her eyes flicker to Regina, who still hasn’t acknowledged Emma’s appearance. “Sabine and I nearly sent out a search party.” She laughs, because of course she has no idea that Regina had, in fact, sent out a search party. Emma swallows and looks at Regina, but Regina is staring at her debate prep with laserlike focus, ignoring Emma altogether. 

 

Emma shrugs, biting her lip and feeling pitying gazes on her. Everyone had caught the look to Regina, then. “I just needed some alone time,” she mumbles. “Is– is Neal coming in?” 

 

A quiet exchange of glances. “He’s still processing things,” Tamara says delicately. “I think…we all know that this campaign is more important than…interpersonal issues. He doesn’t want to bring those to the workplace.” 

 

The glances flicker to Regina, giving Emma a reprieve. Regina looks up and says, “With Neal or without Neal, we are still having this debate in a few weeks, aren’t we?” Her voice is raw and uncertain, and Emma is the one to look away now, to stare at her bag from Granny’s and wonder if she owes the team an apology for shaking things up, yet again.

 

She buries herself in work all morning, makes phone calls and works on the plan for the presence they’re going to have at the annual Storybrooke street fair in a few weeks. They’re going to run a booth, of course, and put up signs wherever they legally can, but Jones has the tendency to steal the spotlight from them with barely a smile. 

 

Which is most of the concern surrounding the two debates that the local news has planned– that and the moderator, who is  _ of course  _ Anna Arendelle. The media loves the idea of drama in quiet Storybrooke and is milking it for all its worth. “Two debates is overkill,” Regina says grumpily from the next desk, glaring at her screen. “How many times can Killian Jones make innuendos at the audience when he’s supposed to be talking policy? Doesn’t it get old?” 

 

“You’ve got to take them seriously,” Tamara says, spinning her chair to face Regina. “He won’t, but he’s not running on issues. You are. You can go in on the attack during this debate if you find an opening– wasn’t Neal working with you on that? Do you have his notes?” 

 

Regina nods, but she still looks unhappy. Neal has been playing Jones in their practice debates, has done an impressive job at it, and without him, Regina has no foil. Emma opens her mouth to volunteer, but she thinks better of it a moment later. 

 

“We’ll worry about the second debate when it’s closer,” Marian reassures Regina. “That’s…what, a week before the election? We’ll have to play it by ear.” 

 

Regina sighs. “I suppose,” she says. “Can we just…take a break? Go get lunch. You’ve been at this all day.” She waves around at the room. “All of you. We’ll be working through the weekend. Take your breaks where you can get them.” 

 

She’s still avoiding Emma’s eyes, and Emma grits her teeth and returns to her work, ignoring Regina’s order. The others are rising reluctantly, stretching and making casual lunch plans, and Mulan pauses at Emma’s desk. “Do you want to get lunch together?” she says in a low voice. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” 

 

Emma blinks up at her. “Yeah, sure,” she says. “Just…give me a few minutes to wrap up. I’ll meet you there.” Mulan nods, stepping from the office, the last stragglers trailing behind her until it’s only Regina and Emma in the room together.

 

Regina catches Emma’s eye, then lets out a huff, rising and stalking away from her into the supply closet without another glance back. Emma, finally, lets a grin spread across her face, and she follows Regina’s lead.

 

The supply closet is tiny and cramped, just big enough for Mulan to sit cross-legged when she’s writing speeches, and Emma shuts the door with some effort as Regina yanks her forward by the collar of her shirt and kisses her breathless. “Wait,” Emma pants, slipping a hand under Regina’s thigh to lift her up. “We should– probably lock it somehow–” She props Regina against a shelf, pressing hot kisses to her neck. “Fuck, you’re hot,” she sighs, and Regina pulls back to smirk at her.

 

Regina after their night together is unburdened in a way that she rarely allows herself to be, grinning wildly like a girl instead of a sharp and driven woman. Her smile is carefree, and Emma pauses to watch her in the dark, in awe at her. “You think they bought it?” 

 

“I think they’re probably fifty-fifty on us right now,” Regina says wryly. “Which is about as good as we’re going to get.” She rests her forehead against Emma’s, her eyes warm. “How has your morning been?” 

 

“Oh, you know,” Emma says, and Regina nibbles at her earlobe as she considers. “The candidate has been a real–” Regina bites down playfully, and Emma gulps. “Goddess,” she finishes instead, and Regina sucks at the shell of Emma’s ear until Emma is shuddering, melting under the touch. 

 

She still marvels at how she can  _ touch  _ Regina, how the barriers between them have shattered so fully and how there are no more reasons to stay away. Her hands dip under the dress that Regina had picked out today– okay,  _ no _ , she’d found it in Regina’s closet and then insisted that she wear it, thinking of very little other than taking it off later– and Regina exhales, squirming against her. 

 

They don’t go any further than that in the office supply closet, but there are long, heated kisses and then Emma pulling reluctantly away. “I said I’d meet Mulan for lunch,” she says, sighing.

 

Regina makes a face. “Tell her the candidate needs you for an urgent task.” She leans over to nip Emma’s shoulder blade, buttoning up Emma’s shirt with marked displeasure.

 

“But  _ that  _ would blow our cover,” Emma says sadly. “And we aren’t going to flaunt  _ this _ until…” 

 

“I know.” Regina sighs, leaning back against the closet shelves as the melancholy sets in. “He told me he needed time to come to terms with everything. I hope– I know Tamara is going for diplomacy right now, but I don’t even know if he’s still planning on being a part of the campaign. Or…or…” She closes her eyes, and Emma feels, rather than hears, the breath of  _ or my life _ .

 

Almost as freeing as getting to touch Regina is being able to verbalize things she’s felt guilty about until now. “You didn’t  _ choose  _ to have…this thing between us,” she says, shying away from any mention of  _ feelings _ . “Neither of us did. There’s only so much he can blame you for here. If anything, I’m the one he should be mad at.” Regina is shaking her head in denial, and Emma whispers, “And if he pushes away his  _ family  _ because of this, then he was never worth being your family. Okay?” 

 

Regina shakes his head. “He’s– he’s bound to be heartbroken and–” 

 

“You’ve been hurting over this for a lot longer,” Emma murmurs, taking Regina’s hand in hers. “Shouldn’t you matter to him as much as he matters to you?” 

 

Regina stares at her for a moment, at a loss, and Emma kisses her one last time, burying her hands in Regina’s hair and inhaling her scent as she tastes her. “One more for the road,” she says breathlessly, and she runs a hand through her own mess of hair and pushes the door open.

 

Mulan stands opposite them, her eyebrows raised as they tumble out of the closet. “That’s a little too on the nose, wouldn’t you say?” Her eyes fall on a very sheepish Emma. “Emma, would you mind?” 

 

“Right,” Emma says, smoothing out her clothes. She glances back at Regina, who looks chagrined. “Uh. Sorry. I was on my way.” 

 

Mulan just shakes her head. “You know the whole office has been waiting for you two to get your act together,” she says when they’re outside, heading for a quiet little restaurant that Emma’s never noticed before.

 

“Neal–” 

 

“It is possible to feel bad for Neal and be simultaneously exasperated with him, you know,” Mulan says. “Tamara has it down to a science. He refuses to see what’s been obvious for months, and you two have refused to…” She shakes her head again. “What exactly do you think would have happened if you’d just been honest with him? At least he’d have gotten a choice in–” 

 

Emma shrugs, on too much of a high to be irritable. “Did you invite me out here to yell at me, or–” 

 

“It’s possible to feel bad for you and be simultaneously exasperated with you, too,” Mulan points out, and then she sighs. “Not that any of this might matter at all in the long term–” She ducks into a narrow alleyway from Main Street. It opens up into a quiet, secluded restaurant, a simple storefront with something written in a Chinese language above its name.

 

“Fortune Noodle House,” Emma reads from the storefront. “I’ve never seen this place before.”

 

Mulan snorts. “ _ Yuan Ju Xiao Guan _ ,” she corrects. “The owners like it this way. You have to be looking for them to know where to find them. I come here sometimes to get work done for the campaign,” she murmurs, a shadow settling over her face. “I don’t want to be overheard.” 

 

She pushes open the door to reveal a dimly lit room that smells of garlic and steamed buns. There are a few small tables in the room, with a single large table off to the side, and Mulan leads Emma to the small table that is farthest away from the door.

 

They order quickly and are served their food within a few minutes, Mulan twitchy in her seat but reluctant to say anything more. They’re approached while they eat by a woman in her forties or maybe fifties who hurries over to Mulan. “Mulan!” she says, and beams at Emma. “How are your studies? I see you brought a friend.” She smiles at Emma, then turns to Mulan and says something in sly, rapid-fire Chinese that Emma can’t understand. 

 

Mulan flushes bright red and shakes her head vigorously, saying something in hasty protest. “Ah, the campaign,” the woman says in English, nodding in recognition. “That Killian Jones is–” She switches to Chinese and says something that has Mulan spit out her noodle soup. In English again, the woman says, satisfied, “Don’t let  _ that person  _ win.”

 

“Always nice to meet a fan,” Emma says wryly. “Any chance you’re going to tell me why we’re here?”

 

Mulan stares at the wall beside them, tracing the Chinese calligraphy emblazoned in it with her eyes as she contemplates. “It’s about Neal,” she says finally. 

 

“I  _ really  _ don’t think he’s cheating on me.”

 

Mulan gives her a look. “His old house is next door to mine, remember? I saw him there last night. He came in through a window. With Tamara.”

 

Emma blinks. Neal had spent his night after their big betrayal...climbing through windows with his not-girlfriend? Okay. “So you do think they’re sleeping together?”

 

Mulan sighs, exasperated with her already. “Not unless they have some  _ very  _ unusual tastes,” she says. “Gold was there, waiting for them.”

 

“Oh.” Emma frowns, pushing aside her romantic preoccupations to focus on what doesn’t seem to be related to it at all. “Gold still owns the house. There’s no reason for them not to go in through the front door unless they didn’t want to be seen. Did they drive?” Mulan shakes her head. “That’s a long walk for an innocent conversation.”

 

“I think Neal and Tamara are up to something,” Mulan says grimly. “And the only reason why they wouldn’t have said anything is–“ She bites her lip, unwilling to say any more.

 

Emma understands anyway, can feel it like a deep dread suffusing her. There have been other odd occurrences with those two. She remembers Regina insisting she’d seen Neal and Tamara at Cora’s party before the dinner dance, and she remembers too many times when Neal had left the apartment at night to have whispered conversations on the phone. 

 

But Neal  _ adores _ Regina. Tamara has seemed fond of her, too, has been perfectly friendly and likable even when intimidating. Why would they–?

 

She shakes her head, finding all of it difficult to believe. “Let’s tail him,” she says. “Tonight. We’ll get our answers.”

 

She can’t imagine what they might be. 

 

* * *

 

The debate is looming dangerously closer with every day. Every day is another spent scrambling over her notes, watching recordings of old Killian Jones interviews to grasp his speaking style and how he might frame his responses. “He might go with policy or he might go with his usual,” Tamara points out, scrolling through Regina’s policy documents. “You’ve got to stay on target. Don’t let him get to you.” 

 

“I know.” Regina watches her, biting back the question she wants to ask. Every day is another spent without any contact from Neal.

 

He’d asked for time, and she’d agreed to give it to him. Still, she finds herself anxious and brooding over his absence, certain with every day that passes that she’s lost him. Maybe this is the trade she’s made– Emma in her home, in her life,  _ hers _ utterly and undeniably, and her brother gone from her. 

 

She takes a breath and focuses on what Tamara is saying, her eyes flickering across the room moments later to find Emma. Emma is sitting at her computer, brow furrowed as she stabs out an email. Her eyes find Regina’s from across the room, and she brightens, a smile curling across her face. 

 

She remembers herself quickly, the smile fading. They’ve been too obvious with each other, too careless, and they can’t let the others know just yet about them. Not when Neal’s role in the campaign and in their lives is in limbo, and they can’t afford to alienate him any more.

 

Sometimes, in selfish moments when Regina can only think about what she’s lost, she wants to march to his apartment and yell at him, to point out how much of their lives and happiness have revolved solely around him while he stands back with an easy smile and a lack of any accountability. Shortly after that, Regina is subsumed by guilt, by awareness of just how much of this is her fault instead.

 

She just wants to  _ talk  _ to him, but Neal isn’t talking. She wants to sink down to the floor of the candidate’s office with him and let him coax the confidence out of her, to sit with him and feel as though she’s found a safe place in the chaos. She wants to do  _ something  _ for him, to somehow make losing Emma okay for him, to explain to him just how desperately she’d tried not to feel these feelings.

 

But she hasn’t seen him in days, almost two weeks, and there are no conversations to be had.

 

“Hey.” It’s Emma, her voice low as she lays a hand on Regina’s shoulder. “You okay?” Of course, Emma has sensed her despair and forgotten their agreement to keep themselves distant at work, ever the knight in shining armor.

 

Tamara eyes them speculatively, and Regina panics, pulling herself away from Emma. “That’s none of your concern,  _ Miss Swan _ ,” she says icily, hoping desperately that Emma recognizes what she’s doing. “Nothing about my life is any of your concern.”

 

Emma’s eyes clear. “Fine,” she says, her voice just as sharp. “Not like I cared, anyway. I don’t give a damn about anything but this debate–” 

 

“As if you give a damn about anything but what you’re going to have for dinner,” Regina sneers. It’s going to be a tuna casserole recipe that Emma had found online. Emma insists on doing some of the cooking now that they’re at Regina’s every night, and she’s been surprisingly capable when she remembers that she’s left something on the stove. There have been some burned pots, but those aren’t  _ entirely  _ Emma’s fault. Regina might have been…distracting her at the time.

 

“Oh, fuck you,” Emma says disgustedly, though she can’t hold her scowl for long. She winks once at Regina before she glowers again, and Regina has to hold her phone up to her mouth before anyone can catch her smile.

 

“Calm down,” Jacinda says, looking alarmed. “Where is this coming from?” 

 

Sabine frowns at them. “You two haven’t been this bad in months. What are you–” Her eyes clear up suddenly. “You’re fucking!” she says in comprehension.

 

“What? No, we’re not,” Regina says quickly.

 

“You  _ are _ . I was wondering why all the moony longing glances stopped,” Sabine crows, and she spins around to thrust an open hand at Jacinda. “Pay up.” 

 

Jacinda folds her arms. “I want an admission first,” she says. “No way that these two got their act together so quickly.” 

 

“You two were  _ betting  _ on us?” Emma demands, looking horrified.

 

“Everyone was betting on you,” Tamara says dryly, and there’s no accusation or resentment in her voice. Regina swallows, still sick at the thought of Neal finding out. “I had money on you circling each other until Election Day.” 

 

“I had the debate,” Marian pipes up, cheerful. “I’ve got to say, I’m glad Sabine won this one. I thought the office might combust from all that sexual tension. Ruby was predicting it’d take  _ years _ . Mulan refused to participate– wait,” she says, her eyes narrowing as she twists around to glare at Mulan. “Did you  _ know _ ?” 

 

Mulan sighs. “Trust me, you don’t want to find out like I did.” 

 

Regina looks around the room, finds smiling, smug faces pointed at her. She closes her eyes. “I’m not talking about this,” she says.

 

“Are you two  _ living _ together?” Marian says suddenly. “Emma isn’t actually staying at Mulan’s, is she?” She grins. “You really pulled out that U-Haul right away, huh?” 

 

Regina puts her face in her hands. Emma says, “Okay, enough. We’re not  _ living _ – it’s just a temporary thing. I’m looking for a place,” which is news to Regina. She looks up, sees the flush on Emma’s face and the smirks on everyone else’s. “Can we please talk less about mine and Regina’s personal lives and more about the debate in a week? We need all the help we can get.” 

 

“We need a better Jones stand-in,” Tamara says, businesslike. “Neal was a natural at playing him. Anyone else want to try smug and obnoxious?” 

 

“You’re all doing fine at that now,” Emma mumbles, and Regina snorts. Emma throws her a quick, mischievous look and returns to her email.

 

Sabine steps in to try her hand at it, and Regina argues with her for the duration of the day, lets her pick holes in their arguments and revises them accordingly. It isn’t enough.

 

“It’s enough,” Tamara says at the end of the day, sensing her dissatisfaction. “It isn’t going to feel like it until Neal is back here, but you’re doing great.” 

 

Regina shrugs moodily. “I don’t feel like I’m doing great.”

 

“You miss Neal,” Tamara corrects her. Her eyes soften. “I know it’s rough right now, and he isn’t having an easy time of it, either. There have been a lot of tantrums.” She rolls her eyes. “Throwing furniture at walls. He isn’t getting his deposit back on this apartment, trust me.” Regina stares at her, the dread almost unbearable. “He’s processing,” Tamara says, squeezing Regina’s shoulder. “He’s an idiot, but he does love you and Emma, and he’s trying in his own way, okay? I promise.” 

 

She gives Regina a little shove. “Now go to your wife. She’s waiting for you,” she says, loudly enough that Emma hears and flushes again.

 

Regina glares at Tamara with very little real anger. “I’m sorry,” she says as she joins Emma at the door. “They’re always unbearable when I’m…interested in someone.” 

 

Emma shrugs. “They’re happy for you,” she says. “Do you know how many  _ don’t you dare hurt her _ speeches I got today? Sabine promised me the Evil Queen treatment if I break your heart.” 

 

Regina snorts. “Tamara promised me the same about you,” she says, their hands bumping as they walk down the road to Regina’s car. Tamara had been frank and a little terrifying in her casual threat, a reminder that she loves Regina very much but will make her miserable if she screws this up. “I think you might be just as much theirs as I am.” They’re careful not to stand too close in public, to keep their interactions casual and innocent. Even if the campaign knows now, the rest of Storybrooke never can find out.

 

They stop at the supermarket on the way home to pick up ingredients for Emma’s dinner, and Regina watches Emma as she squints at a dozen varieties of pasta. “Do you think the casserole would taste different with the little bow ties instead of the ziti noodles?” 

 

“They’re the exact same thing?” 

 

Emma gives her a scornful look. “Spoken like someone who hasn’t lived on mac and cheese for most of her life,” she says. “The  _ texture  _ matters. What about linguine?” she says suddenly, and Regina leans back against the shelves of couscous opposite the pasta and feels an unbearable fondness toward Emma Swan, who is studying every box of pasta like this dinner is a test she’s determined to ace.

 

It isn’t until they’re safely back in the car that Regina ventures, “So you’re looking for an apartment?” The idea of it fills her with unbearable loneliness already, with a loss she hasn’t suffered yet. “You haven’t mentioned–” 

 

“I mean I should, right?” Emma says, fiddling with the shopping bags. She doesn’t look at Regina, just chews on her lip and waits. Regina doesn’t respond, and Emma says, “This is all– I mean, we  _ just  _ started–” She looks anxious, and Regina remembers suddenly that Emma is the one who’d nearly left town several times before, who runs by habit when she’s feeling too settled.

 

She swallows and says, her heart aching, “Yes, of course. I can try to help you find something affordable in town that  _ isn’t _ owned by Neal’s father.” She laughs dryly and Emma laughs with her, turning her head to watch Regina with a wan smile.

 

Regina turns away, facing the road as she pulls away from the curb. She’s overcome by a sudden, impossible longing, by a despair at the thought of  _ doing this all alone _ again. Home has become a respite, a break from the never-ending stress of the campaign. Home with  _ Emma _ . 

 

But she can’t ask this of Emma, to live with her and be rooted in that way that she fears. It would destroy Emma. She takes a breath and changes the topic, swallowing back silly insecurities. “Any plans for tonight?” 

 

Emma pokes her, the tension gone. “Mulan and I have plans,” she says, like she’s said three other times in the past two weeks. “Just gonna hang out after dinner.” 

 

In another situation, Regina might have been jealous. Instead, she watches the shadows on Emma’s face and says, “More covert ops, I suppose?” 

 

Emma blinks, startled, and then grins in sheepish admission. “It’s nothing you need to know about yet,” she says. “Better that you don’t know right now.” 

 

It frustrates her, sometimes, not being able to  _ know _ . Before she’d been the candidate, knowing everything had been her  _ job _ . Now, that goes to the people she trusts most. “And when there is something to know?” 

 

Emma leans over, clasps a hand onto Regina’s cheek and kisses her chastely on the lips. Regina parts her lips and closes her eyes, her tongue dipping out and her heart beating hard in her throat with  _ forever, forever, please, this forever  _ until Emma is cradling Regina’s face in her hands and gazing at her with her eyes so warm and wet that Regina can’t bear any of it. “You’ll know,” she whispers, and Regina trembles and kisses her again.

 

* * *

 

“Regina can’t know any of this,” Mulan reminds Emma when they’re in the car later that night, parked down the block from Neal’s apartment. “Especially not right now, when she and Neal are…” Her voice trails off.

 

“Yeah. They don’t need this between them if it’s nothing. I don’t understand how–” Emma bites back what she wants to say, and then finally, dully, “Tamara.” 

 

“Yeah,” Mulan echoes. “Neal is angry right now and maybe it’s…it’s part of all of this. But Tamara comes into work every day and seems fine with both of you. She was the one to start that office pool on when you and Regina would…” She shakes her head. “She doesn’t seem to hold any grudges on Neal’s behalf. But she’s also skulking around with him now.” 

 

Emma has tried puzzling out both their motivations and gotten nothing. “I don’t like keeping this from Regina,” she says, staring out the window. So far, Neal hasn’t emerged from his apartment. They’d spotted him once last week and followed him but he’d only gone to the pharmacy, and that had been the only time he’d emerged.

 

Today, though, Tamara has already gone inside, and the lights are off in the apartment. Which means… _ jackpot. _ Neal and Tamara are emerging from the apartment, glancing around warily as they enter Neal’s car.

 

They round a corner and Mulan follows them, rounding the block just after they do and waiting until they’re nearly at the next corner before she drives on. With Mulan’s headlights off, Neal’s car lights the way for them, and they roll silently after it.

 

Before long, they’ve left the residential neighborhood and moved to the dark, empty area outside the country club golf course. “What is he doing here?” Emma wonders. 

 

“No idea.” Mulan frowns, squinting after Neal and Tamara. They’ve turned off their headlights as well, and they’re driving steadily along the golf course, all the way down to where it hits a decrepit park at the rundown end of town. There’s a high gate around it there, as though to keep out Lost Boys and other  _ unsavory people _ , and Emma wrinkles her nose in disgust. 

 

Neal parks his car. “Let’s go,” Mulan says in a low voice, and they edge out of their own car, creeping after Neal and Tamara as they linger in the park. Someone else is approaching from the other end, moving quickly and looking around as she moves. 

 

For a moment, Emma thinks that it’s Regina and her heart stops. The woman is small, with the same short, coiffed hair that Regina styles and a pricey coat that could have come from Regina’s closet. But then the single streetlight over the park hits her face, and it isn’t Regina at all.

 

Maybe it would have been better if it had been. 

 

“It’s Ivy Belfrey,” Mulan whispers unnecessarily as Emma stares at the cluster of whispering operatives in the park. “Jones’s chief of staff.” 

 

* * *

 

Neal and Tamara depart moments later, close enough to Mulan and Emma’s hiding place that Emma is forced to jump back into the underbrush next to the country club gate, and she has a nasty-looking rash on her arm when Mulan pulls her up. “What now?” Mulan wonders, looking at her expectantly. 

 

Emma doesn’t know, except that Regina most certainly can’t know  _ this _ . And they don’t have many courses of action. “We have to find out more,” she decides. “At least try to understand  _ some  _ of what’s going on. And I think we need to investigate any…” She bites her lip, hating everything about this. “Neal isn’t that much younger than Jones. And they both grew up in this town. Maybe we have to find some connection there.” 

 

The very idea of Neal being a double agent– working for  _ Jones _ , of all people– makes Emma sick. Yeah, they’re broken up now, but she  _ knows _ him. She cares about him, at least as much as you might care about someone you’d  _ lived with  _ for half a year.  And Neal wouldn’t turn on them like this. He might be furious with Emma right now and might never forgive her, but he wouldn’t– it’s not like him to go for revenge when he can just close himself off forever and be self-righteously miserable instead.

 

If Neal is having clandestine meetings with Jones’s chief of staff, then there must be some reason for it. Something that could possibly explain it away. Emma can’t imagine  _ what _ , but she’s sure that she must be misunderstanding this all.

 

Still, Regina looks up when Emma pushes open the door and frowns, alarmed at what she sees on Emma’s face. “What happened?” 

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Emma mumbles, and Regina sighs and stands, guiding her to the couch. 

 

“You need some aloe for that burn,” she says, and she disappears into the kitchen and returns again with the ointment, rubbing it into the splotch of red on Emma’s arm. Emma closes her eyes, savoring Regina’s proximity, and Regina presses a kiss to her forehead.

 

If Regina would let her, Emma could stay like this forever, could keep them safe in this little bubble of peace where there are no betrayals or reasons for espionage or campaigns with nasty opponents who shouldn’t even deserve a shot at mayor. If Regina wanted her to stay, Emma might never leave.

 

_ But Regina doesn’t want you to stay _ , she reminds herself, shifting uncomfortably as Regina’s hands work her skin expertly. Emma had blurted out the bit about finding an apartment because she’d been flustered at the teasing, because she’s been living off of Regina for weeks now without even paying rent and she’s not  _ like  _ that. With Neal, she hadn’t thought anything of it because he’d  _ owed  _ her, and staying with him had been part of the package deal of their stilted forgiveness. With Regina, she just feels like she’s… _ taking advantage _ .

 

And Regina had brought it up again in the car as though it had been something she’d taken seriously, and now Emma is dreading, once again, being without Regina every night. It’s better this way, isn’t it? This is the mature, reasonable way that people have relationships. With an exit plan.

 

Nausea roils in her stomach, and she lays her head back against the couch. Regina wraps her arms around Emma, carefully avoiding the rash on her arm. “Hey,” she murmurs. “What are you thinking about?” 

 

Emma grins wanly at her and picks another thought from the menagerie of Regina Thoughts all wandering through her mind. “I want to take you out,” she says. “On a real date. We can go somewhere secluded, or just…keep it casual enough that it won’t look like a date, or–” 

 

“That sounds perfect,” Regina cuts her off before she can start babbling, and Emma exhales,  _ something  _ today going right at last.

 

“Okay. Cool.” Emma licks her lips, contemplating it. “I’ve never been on a date before. Well, I mean…I’ve  _ dated  _ people, but it’s always been less…formal,” she suggests, grimacing at some of the memories of those so-called dates. There had been a lot less wining and dining and a lot more getting drunk enough at a bar that the guy in question had seemed attractive.

 

Regina blinks at her. “Did Neal never take you out on a date?” 

 

Emma shrugs. “We were on the run together the first time around. Not much time for dating. And in Storybrooke…” She thinks about it. “I don’t know. We had the campaign. Sometimes we’d get dinner after work, if that counts?” 

 

“It does not,” Regina says, sounding scandalized. “He  _ never  _ took you on a date?” She sits up, twisting around so she can sit cross-legged on the couch and stare at Emma with her eyes narrowed. “That’s it.  _ I’m  _ taking  _ you  _ out.” 

 

“No! I asked you first!” Emma says, offended. “You don’t think I can show you a better time than  _ Mal _ ?” 

 

Regina snorts. “Mal and I never dated. We just had a lot of very vigorous–” She cuts herself off. Emma, who is suddenly feeling very competitively vigorous herself, launches herself forward, pressing Regina against the couch arm.

 

She kisses Regina’s neck, slipping her hands up Regina’s dress until Regina is like putty in her hands, hips arching up at Emma and her eyes lidded with need. “Tell me how you like to be taken out,” she breathes, biting the shell of Regina’s ear.

 

“Every date I’ve been on has been an interminable experience,” Regina murmurs, tilting her head back to give Emma better access. “Men. Boys. Trying to keep my mother happy. And then nothing after that. Meetings in bars and hiding in stables.” She kisses Emma, long and hard, until they’re both gasping for breath. “I just want to be with you.” 

 

“Okay,” Emma says, and she lets her hands fall for a moment, lying down on top of Regina instead. Her head is pressed to Regina’s shoulder, her body curled against Regina’s, and she is content only to lie like this, wrapped around her…her Regina. “How about Friday night?” 

 

A flicker of discontent across Regina’s face. “I have that union thing on Friday,” she reminds Emma. “And Tamara and Marian and I are going over my debate talking points on Saturday and Sunday. I don’t know when…” She holds Emma tightly. “After the debate,” she says finally. “We can go out after the debate.” 

 

Emma watches her, catches the twitch in her eye at it. “You’re working too hard,” she says. She can see it in the way that Regina collapses on the couch when they get home and doesn’t get up until bedtime, in the way that she never stops poring over her notes. Regina has filled all her time with the election, and it’s starting to weigh on her like it never has before.

 

Neal has always been around during the election, more as support staff than their leader, but Regina has leaned on him for that support more than anyone else. With his silence, Regina is struggling, and Emma can see it. “You need a break now more than ever.” 

 

* * *

 

But Regina  _ can’t  _ take a break. She stands in the middle of the office on Saturday, Tamara standing opposite her with a terrible toupee perched on her head. “My opponent has some cute ideas,” Tamara allows, leering at her. “But that’s all they are– cute ideas from a little girl who’s never made it out of the classroom. You need a  _ man  _ standing in front of this town. You need someone with authority and presence,” she says smugly.

 

Regina’s eyes narrow, and she turns her attention to their audience. Marian and Emma have pulled up their chairs, leaning forward with neutral expressions on their faces. “What this town needs is less window dressing and more  _ content _ ,” she retorts. “More policy that can make a difference. Last year, we had three separate campaigns for decorating Main Street for Christmas and not one to repair the damaged road on Bay Lane. There are six separate school bus routes that have had to be redirected because of that damage,” she says, straightening.

 

Tamara gestures carelessly. “I’ll take care of that,” she says, and then guffaws. “What, were you expecting Little Miss Yale to be able to deal with  _ infrastructure _ ?” 

 

Regina glares daggers at her. Tamara holds up her hands in a  _ not my words _ reminder.

 

Still, by the end of the afternoon, Regina is irritable and frustrated. “My  _ opponent  _ is  _ lying _ ,” she says after one particularly vicious attack. “Like…literally  _ fucking  _ lying to every single person in this room. He isn’t going to do shit. He’s just promising whatever he thinks can–  _ dammit _ !” she explodes, spinning around, and she buries her face in her hands.

 

A chair moves behind her. “Wait,” Tamara says, not to Regina. Regina takes a breath and then turns, forcing a smile when she really just wants to cry. “I would like to know how Mr. Jones intends to support the teachers’ union pay raise when he has already apportioned that money to private school funding, as per his speech at Storybrooke Preparatory Academy in August,” she says coolly. “Mr. Jones, for all his age and wisdom, does not seem to understand finances.” 

 

“That’s what my secretary is for,” Tamara says, winking at their audience. “Hey, Regina, kiddo, if you’re looking for a job after this campaign, I’d be happy to have you.” 

 

“Fuck off,” Regina says irritably, but she sinks into her seat, the practice debate over. “How’d I do?” 

 

“You were great,” Emma says loyally. “Really…dug into the issues.” 

 

Regina narrows her eyes at her. “You’re lying.” 

 

“I’m not!” Emma protests. “You really  _ are  _ great. But, um…” She looks at Marian for guidance. Marian just looks confused. “No one is going to doubt that you know what you’re talking about. But some of it is a little…inaccessible. You reference policy like you know it cold. And no one else listening is going to. Can you try to bring it down to earth?” She looks apologetic, and Regina shuts her eyes, refusing to let her frustrations leak through to target Emma. 

 

“Let’s do it again,” she says. “Does anyone need a break?” 

 

“Do you?” Marian says, looking very concerned.

 

Regina snorts. “I don’t do breaks,” she says, shrugging it off. “Go. Get some food. Take a breather. I’m going to look over my notes.” 

 

She disappears into the office, listening as the others leave reluctantly. Emma is the last to go, and she’s back within ten minutes, a bag of beignets and a cup of coffee in hand. “Eat,” she orders, hopping onto the desk. “You aren’t a machine, Regina. You need to rest sometimes.” 

 

“I rest,” Regina protests. “I–” 

 

“You sit when you work?” Emma suggests, rolling her eyes. “You’ve been working yourself harder than ever.  _ Come _ .” She holds out a hand. “We’re going to Granny’s and getting lunch–  _ dinner _ ,” she amends, scowling at the clock. “And you can do another practice debate tomorrow.” 

 

“Tamara wants–” 

 

“Tamara wants you to take a break. Either that, or she’s working for the other side,” Emma jokes, and she turns away for a moment, her long, blonde hair obscuring her face. Regina takes her hand reluctantly, and Emma says, “Come on. I already ordered. The food is gonna get cold.” She grins at Regina, shameless and smug at this head start, and Regina sighs and lets her pull her along.

 

They drop hands once they’re outside, and Regina can feel that like another weight on her chest, another reminder of who she  _ has to be _ . Every day is a reminder of who she has to be now, as candidate and as leader of their campaign and as maybe-future mayor. The pressure of it is like a constant load, pressing her into the ground.

 

“How are Sabine and Jacinda enjoying their day off at the bakery?” Regina tries, forcing herself to think of anything else than the campaign. “They haven’t had a lot of those together in a while.” 

 

Emma looks suddenly shifty. “They’re fine,” she says, and Regina blinks at her, suddenly worried.

 

“What’s wrong?” 

 

“Nothing. They’re dealing with it.” Emma shakes her head. “It isn’t for you to worry about.” Regina gives her a dark look, and Emma sighs. “Gold owns their building on Main Street. Your mother is raising the rent an obscene amount. They’re going to be fine. They don’t even want you to know about it.” 

 

“That’s not–” It’s another weight on her shoulders, another person hurt because of her. She sucks in a shaky breath, afraid at once for her friends, who have put so much of themselves into that bakery– Sabine must be–

 

She pushes open the door to the diner, and she stops speaking. 

 

Neal is at the counter, chatting with Ruby, and he turns at the sound of the door. His smile falls from his face, his expression suddenly strained, and Regina can feel her heart suddenly pounding.

 

He’s her  _ brother _ . He’s always been a constant in her life, with an easy smile and a laid-back attitude that had always countered her own uptight demeanor. And now he’s looking at her with his brow furrowed and a stiff, pursed smile that looks false and distant, and she wants to collapse right there.

 

He says, “Emma. Regina.” 

 

Regina is unable to respond. Emma shifts uncomfortably and says, “Hey, Neal.” There’s a note to her voice, a hostility that takes Regina by surprise. “Keeping busy?” 

 

It sounds almost accusing, and Regina looks at Emma askance. Neal blinks. “I’m surprised to see you still in town,” he says, and it’s cool and a little accusing. 

 

“I stayed.” Emma looks defiant, and then remorseful. She bites her lip. “We could really use you for the debate prep,” she says, an apology.

 

Neal looks at Regina. Regina stands very still, her heart caught in her throat. Neal looks away. 

 

He walks past them, his movements brusque, and Regina says, finally finding her voice, “Neal–” 

 

The door closes behind him. Regina shuts her eyes. Emma says in a low voice, “Let’s get our food to go.” 

 

They eat in the kitchen at home. Regina picks at her food, then Emma’s, her appetite gone. There’s something about seeing Neal again that drives home exactly how desperately she needs him, how different everything is without him. There had been a time when she’d  _ enjoyed  _ the campaign, when it hadn’t felt as though the whole world is hovering over her, forcing her into the ground. 

 

She has the campaign. She has  _ Emma _ , which she can hardly believe at all sometimes. She has everything, except that she’s about to be undermined at the highest-profile event they’ve ever had, except that her mother is targeting her friends, except that her own brother won’t look at her when he bumps into her on the street.

 

Emma picks up Regina’s sandwich and pushes it at her. “Take a bite,” she orders, and Regina nibbles at it obligingly. “More.” 

 

“I’m not a child, Emma,” Regina says wearily. “I don’t need to be fed.” 

 

“Well, you aren’t eating, so–” 

 

“I’m not hungry.”

 

“You didn’t eat lunch today, too,” Emma says, frowning at her. “You barely touched your breakfast. And don’t think I didn’t notice you ignoring the beignets–” 

 

“I haven’t been hungry. Is that okay with you,  _ boss _ ? I’ve been busy,” Regina says. It’s curt, harsher than she’d meant it to be, and Emma’s face stiffens then goes carefully blank. 

 

She speaks slowly, the words careful and distant. “No, it’s not okay. You need food to  _ live _ , remember? And you can’t keep pushing yourself to your limits without stopping to take care of yourself–” 

 

“I’m  _ fine _ , Emma,” Regina says, and she can feel her irritation growing, her frustration with the situation too much to overlook anymore. “I’m still here, aren’t I? I don’t need to be babied–” 

 

“You could use some babying,” Emma mutters under her breath.

 

Regina stares at her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? What am I doing wrong  _ now _ ?” And  _ fuck _ , she’s on the verge of tears already, is exhausted and close to shattering into pieces. She rises abruptly. “I get it. I can’t talk to people anymore. My estranged mother is blackmailing me through my friends. My girlfriend is losing patience with me, and my brother  _ hates  _ me, so please tell me how else I’ve fucked up so I can just– just  _ fix _ it all–” 

 

She’s shaking, her head pounding and her heart beating so quickly that she thinks it might burst, and all she can think about is Neal looking away from her, is Emma’s blank face, Tamara’s faux-sneer and the way that Sabine had reminded her exactly how different her own life has been. All she can think about is Marian with Roland, struggling through a divorce, and standing in front of the audience at the debate while Killian Jones shreds her.

 

She carries every fuck-up along with her, every problem that plagues Storybrooke and every time she might fail everyone. And now she stands straight and tall, as rigid as a dried-out stalk of wheat that could break with one tap. “I’m just trying to keep us going–” 

 

“Regina,” Emma breathes, and the stiffness is gone from her expression. Instead, she only looks compassionate, and it nearly breaks Regina. Emma’s arms are around her at once, and Regina can feel herself crumple, feel a shuddering sob erupt from her throat and then Emma holding her tightly, kissing her forehead as Regina cries desperately into her shoulder. 

 

“You are  _ wonderful  _ with people,” Emma murmurs into her hair. “Your mother is responsible for her own actions. Neal is being a  _ dick  _ by leaving you hanging like this and I am  _ not  _ losing patience with you, Regina, I just want you to stop trying to carry the whole world on your own.” She kisses her again, and Regina trembles in her arms and fails to stop her tears. “I know you don’t know  _ how _ , but–” 

 

Regina laughs shakily, clinging to her. Emma is strong in a way that Regina’s rarely had before, where she holds Regina up and makes it feel effortless. She kisses Regina again and Regina’s heart hurts at losing her now, this one tiny piece of her life that’s beginning to feel like the brightest bit of all. “Everyone needs me at my best.” 

 

Emma sits her down on the couch and then kneels in front of her, hands resting on Regina’s thigh. “So is this the plan?” she demands. “You’re just gonna go on like this forever? Do you think you’ll even make it to Election Day?” She looks up at Regina, beseeching. “What I was saying before– you don’t let anyone else take on any of your burden. You wouldn’t let us hire a new deputy campaign manager. You’ve been helping me since Ruby left and working nonstop since Marian started on part-time. You work yourself to the bone and you don’t seem to see what it does to you,” she says pleadingly, and Regina is crying again, is feeling so young and vulnerable that she can barely breathe. “You’re going to be  _ mayor _ , Regina. You can’t crash now.”

 

“I’m trying,” Regina whispers, and she runs her fingers through Emma’s hair, feels the softness of her curls and watches her in quiet agony. “I don’t know why it’s gotten so hard.” 

 

“It’s been a hard campaign,” Emma murmurs. “And you leaned on Neal a lot more than I thought. Than anyone thought.” She grins up at Regina, suddenly sheepish. “I thought he was pretty much there to just be…the only guy in the room. But he centers you, doesn’t he? He lets you breathe.” 

 

Regina remembers sitting with him in quiet rooms, finding her energy and drive. She remembers laughing with him and feeling as though they really can beat the system, and she closes her eyes for a moment and nods.

 

When she opens them again, Emma is watching her, her eyes warm. “I know he isn’t here now,” she says. “Let me be that person for you. Please. I know I’m not…I know Marian might be better suited for it, or–” 

 

Regina reaches down to Emma, tilts her chin up to face her. “You’re perfect,” she says firmly, and she tugs Emma to her, raises her face to kiss her gently on the lips. 

 

“Well,” Emma looks briefly flustered, pulling herself to her feet. “I’m…I’m gonna get your sandwich. You’re going to eat the whole thing.” 

 

“Not on the couch!” 

 

“Absolutely on the couch!” Emma throws over her shoulder, and Regina sighs with exasperation and sheer adoration for Emma Swan.

 

She needs her, needs her in a way that she hasn’t even needed Neal. Neal has never been all that aware of what it is that he does for Regina. Emma  _ knows _ , Emma recognizes when it is that Regina is breaking, Emma is… 

 

Emma is going to move out, and Regina wants to sob at the thought of it, at losing Emma when she needs her by her side. She can’t ask any more of Emma. This is what Emma  _ wants _ , and she can’t take away what Emma…

 

Emma returns to sit beside her with the sandwich and the remote. “Oh, we’re also watching TV tonight,” she informs Regina. “Mind-numbing, time-wasting TV. And then I’m gonna draw us a nice, long bath.” Regina’s eyes flicker to her laptop. “If you touch that thing, I’m gonna push it out the window,” Emma says cheerily.

 

Regina snorts and then says, her voice still wet and undignified, “Thank you.” 

 

Emma leans against her shoulder, stealing a bite of the sandwich she’d been so insistent that Regina eat. “Girlfriend?” she says suddenly. 

 

Regina blinks at her.

 

“Earlier,” Emma elaborates. “You said your girlfriend was losing patience with you. Girlfriend?” she repeats.

 

Regina can feel her heart expanding in her chest, her breathing coming more easily than it has in days. “Yes,” she says, grinning tentatively at Emma. “I have a girlfriend. Sorry I didn’t let you know. It’s kind of new. My girlfriend is eating me out of house and home, and she sings off-key in the shower, and she sleeps late  _ every  _ morning–” 

 

“Yeah?” Emma says, her eyes dancing. “She can’t be worse than my girlfriend.” She swallows her bite of sandwich and goes in for another. “My girlfriend throws a fit when I leave a towel on the bedroom floor. She opens every single window shade every morning at like four AM when she wakes up, and she has a secret chocolate stash that she won’t  _ share  _ with me.  _ Plus  _ she makes her bed every single morning, even though she’s gonna go right back there by night–” 

 

“She sounds like a prize,” Regina says primly. “Better hang onto that girl of yours.” 

 

“Yours, too,” Emma says, and there’s a goofy smile on her face, her eyes warm and affectionate. Regina aches to say  _ something _ , to beg her to  _ stay _ and tell her she needs her–

 

But instead, she only takes a bite from her sandwich and curls up beside her girlfriend in quiet, wordless gratitude. If it’s tinged with dread, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

 

* * *

 

Regina needs Emma, and that fills Emma with some kind of  _ feelings _ , a softness that she can’t quite rid herself of even when she isn’t with Regina. She smiles more, loses herself in daydreams that are as mundane as the way Regina’s eyes sparkle when she laughs, the little bite of her lip when she’s focusing, the way her whole face shifts when she’s angry–

 

“Emma, the honeymoon is over,” Mulan says impatiently, waving a hand in front of her face. “Back to earth. I found something.” 

 

It’s nearly debate day. They’re at Mulan’s house, sitting in her living room while her mother peers in from the next room. (“It’s been like this since I came out to her,” Mulan says with an eye roll. “She’s afraid that every girl I bring over might be a secret girlfriend.”) They’ve been poring over Killian Jones’s yearbook from high school, which is right there at the bottom of the list of things that Emma had wanted to do today. 

 

Still, a connection between Jones and Neal remains elusive. Until now. “Sorry,” Emma says sheepishly. “I’ve been…there’s all this stuff going on. With the campaign. The debate.” 

 

“Right,” Mulan says knowingly. “The debate. How is Regina doing?” she asks, lowering her voice as her mother looks in suspiciously. “She’s seemed…stretched a little thin lately.” 

 

“She’s doing fine,” Emma says, defensive. Mulan raises her eyebrows. “A little thin,” Emma concedes. “We’ve talked about it.” She’s going to be stretched even more thinly if they lose Neal and Tamara completely. Already, Sabine and Jacinda are struggling, have started taking turns at the campaign headquarters instead of leaving the bakery to their workers. The volunteers have been more and more active on site, filling in their missing gaps wherever Regina will allow it, and Regina locks herself in the candidate’s office with whomever they can spare and rehearses policy as though she’s studying for the biggest test of her life. 

 

Emma has declared Regina’s apartment a debate-free zone, and Regina has retaliated by staying out at work later and later every night. Still, Emma counts it as a victory when Regina reluctantly returns to the apartment at five pm on several evenings, conceding her exhaustion without saying so aloud.

 

Mulan grins as Emma explains it to her. “So she comes home to your little love nest every night. You really are in that honeymoon phase.” 

 

Emma throws a pencil at her. “Ugh. It’s not like that. I’m looking for an apartment,” she says, which isn’t  _ technically  _ a lie. She’d glanced at the classifieds in the  _ Daily Mirror  _ a few times while Regina had read the morning paper. Nothing had seemed very promising, and she’d dropped the paper back on the table, relieved. 

 

Mulan raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Right. You really seem like you’re ready to…pick up and go,” she says. “You wouldn’t last a day.” 

 

Emma retrieves her pencil and pokes it into her thigh glumly. “It’s what Regina wants. I think.  She hasn’t said anything otherwise.” 

 

Mulan shrugs. “Regina’s kind of…closed off. I don’t know. Marian told me that it took Regina years before she would even refer to her as a friend.  _ Sometimes _ . Marian tells Regina that she loves her when they’re on the phone and Regina gets flustered just at  _ that _ .” 

 

“And how are you and Marian?” Emma asks, leaning forward, and Mulan gives her a scornful look and points at the yearbook. 

 

“As I was  _ saying _ ,” she says, “I found something weird. Look.”

 

It’s a blurb next to Killian Jones’s name, a list of memories that seem mostly to revolve around girls, alcohol, private jokes, and a rather hilarious hair-related vanity of his. But Mulan is pointing at a random line in the center, a memory that only says,  _ Golden boy _ .

 

“He doesn’t sound like much of a golden boy in the yearbook,” Emma says dubiously. 

 

Mulan nods. “And it’s capitalized. None of the rest is. Isn’t that strange?” 

 

“It’s probably talking about his job,” Mulan’s mother says from behind them. They turn, startled. 

 

“Job?” Mulan repeats. “What job?” 

 

“I thought you knew,” Mulan’s mother says, nodding toward the big glass patio doors on the side of the living room. Emma looks out the window and sees nothing but a carefully kept lawn. “It was right next door,” Mrs. Hua clarifies, and Emma looks past the fence, sees the big yard on the other side of the fence, the pool in Neal’s backyard. 

 

She remembers, very suddenly, Cora on television on the day after the primary, extolling Jones’s virtues.  _ He spent a summer tending to neighborhood pools _ . “Was he…was Killian Jones the Golds’ pool boy?” she asks, and another bit of information slots into place, the puzzle unintelligible as ever.

 

Mrs. Hua nods. “I’m surprised Neal never mentioned it,” she says. “He used to follow Jones all around town when he was…eleven? Twelve? They were thick as thieves for that whole summer.”

 

_ Thick as thieves _ . Neal has a secret history with– with  _ Killian Jones _ ? Emma remembers a scuffle in a bar during one of her first weeks on the campaign, Neal charging at Jones and being backed against the wall. Jones had said  _ something _ , something about his family, and Neal had been so unexpectedly angry–

 

Unless it had all been for show. Unless Neal had wanted to make it clear from the start whose side he had been on. Emma thinks back to the primary, her phone found in Mary Margaret’s campaign headquarters in a failed attempt to frame her for the break-in. It would have been so easy to take it from her desk, to plant it where it had to be. Emma and Regina had fallen asleep on the couch when Neal had still been awake– and Neal had been awake before them in the morning, too. 

 

Neal had been at the soiree for Cora’s potential donors. Neal has been in far too many of the right places at the right times. 

 

Neal is…

 

It’s impossible. But it makes a terrifying sort of sense, and Emma can feel the truth in her bones, as real as the dread that follows it.

 

* * *

 

On the morning of the debate, Regina wakes up an hour before her alarm and finds Emma already out of bed. She bites back her disappointment. Emma had been there last night, but she wanders in the night sometimes, is restless and winds up passed out on the couch with the TV playing in the background. Still, she’d hoped to wake up beside Emma, to seize a tiny bit of peace before the panic sets in.

 

She brushes her teeth and tugs on Emma’s discarded shirt from last night, buttoning only the middle few buttons and heading for the kitchen for some coffee.  _ Wait _ . She sniffs the air, yawning. There’s already coffee up. Had Emma beaten her to the kitchen today–

 

She steps out of her bedroom and blinks. It’s dim in the apartment before sunrise, but the rarely-used dining room corner is lit with candles and the table is set, complete with a tablecloth and with her girlfriend dozing at the other seat at the table.

 

Emma jolts. “Oh, good. I knew you’d be awake soon,” she says, maneuvering to the kitchen in a sleepy daze. “I made coffee. And I bribed Ruby to deliver breakfast, because I knew I’d  _ definitely  _ burn pancakes this early in the morning– how do you  _ do  _ this every morning, how are you  _ real _ –” 

 

Regina catches her before she makes it to the kitchen, sliding an arm around Emma’s neck and pressing a kiss to her lips. “What is this?” she asks, bewildered but touched.

 

Emma looks sheepish. “You didn’t want to go on a date until the debate. And I know now you probably won’t want to date until the street fair. And then the final donors dinner. And then the last debate. And then the– I figured I would bring the date to you. Ruby thought you’d like it,” she says, already defensive. “It’s just breakfast–” 

 

“Emma,” Regina manages, and then she’s kissing her again, backing her against the warmed oven and feeling so desperately  _ happy  _ that she feels like she might crumble right here. For a moment, she almost forgets the debate awaiting her, the prep-filled havoc she’s going to walk into in a few hours and the hour tonight in which she’s going to have to face Killian Jones and whatever his battle plan is. “I promise you,” she says, pressing a final kiss to Emma’s face, “I will be taking  _ you  _ out before then.” A mumble of protest, and then something about pancakes, because Emma is nothing if not consistent.

 

She’s nearly late to work, Emma trailing behind her looking loose and unburdened, and then there is little to do but prepare for the debate. Mulan quizzes her on obscure policy while she watches Killian Jones late-night TV interviews, and Marian hovers with Tamara, arguing about their tactics. Jacinda and Sabine filter in and out through the day, preoccupied with the bakery until Regina sends them both back there. “We’ll be fine today,” she tells them forcefully. “We need you at your top game during the debate tonight. Go take care of what you need to now.” 

 

She watches the door all day out of some wild, foolish hope that this might be the day that somehow, finally, Neal might return. If he doesn’t come back today– it’s been  _ weeks _ , and he still needs  _ time _ , and she doesn’t know what might make any of this okay–

 

Emma’s perceptions of Neal have become decidedly unfavorable as the weeks have passed without his return. Regina, though, can’t seem to shake the hope that Neal will come back, that he’s processing just as Tamara insists that he is, that he won’t let this shatter their relationship. More and more, as each day passes, Regina can’t imagine that their siblinghood had been only a figment of her imagination.

 

He’d been in love with Emma. Most likely, he still is, and without Regina this time to help with his heartbreak. Regina puts herself in his shoes– imagines for a moment loving Emma with all she is, only to discover her falling in love with Neal instead– and her heart stops at how devastating it is. 

 

So Neal needs a month. So Neal needs the rest of the campaign. He can have it all, she tells herself, but she can’t quite put her heart behind it. She  _ needs _ him, needs him tonight with his  _ stupid _ smile and  _ stupid _ confidence, so  _ stupidly _ sure of her even while knowing the very worst and best of who she is. 

 

And the day turns to evening, they move from the office to the local TV station before they head to Town Hall, and he still isn’t here.

 

“Hey.” It’s Emma, Regina’s phone in hand, and Regina blinks away from where she’s getting her makeup done. “You have a phone call.” 

 

Regina shakes her head. “I need to focus.” 

 

Emma dangles the phone in front of her. “You’ll want to talk to him,” she says, and Regina nearly snatches the phone from her grasp. 

 

“Hello?” 

 

It isn’t Neal. It’s her father, and she nearly sobs in disappointment and joy. “Daddy,” she breathes. “It’s almost the debate.” 

 

“I know, I know,  _ mijita _ .” His voice is soothing over the phone, and she can feel herself exhaling, relaxing a hair. “I wanted to let you know that your friend Jacinda arranged a stream on the local website. I’ll be watching the whole debate.” 

 

“But it’s–” She calculates the time difference. “It’s almost one in the morning.” 

 

“I can sleep after you take that man down a peg,” Daddy says lightly. “You will be the mayor Storybrooke has always needed. I can’t wait to watch you shine.” 

 

She’s a little misty-eyed when she hangs up, a bit of strength restored, and Emma grins at her. “You’re good to go,” she says, helping her up. “We’re ahead of schedule. Wanna go get stuck in the elevator again?” She wiggles her eyebrows and Regina laughs, wishing more than anything that she could kiss Emma right now.

 

Instead, she says, “I thought it might be Neal. On the phone.” 

 

Emma scoffs. “I know,” she admits. “It’s good to remember the family you have worth keeping, though. Forget Neal. Your father is watching. Zelena even sent you a Snapchat video.” It had been two seconds of  _ good luck  _ and another twenty of Zelena admiring herself as she’d mugged for the camera, but Regina had taken it gladly. “And you have all of us.” 

 

“I know,” Regina says, and she presses her lips together, stares into the mirrors opposite her. She looks ten years older, composed and mature and mayor material. Neal would be calling her  _ Madam President  _ right about now, if he were here. “I know.” 

 

* * *

 

Jones has gone with his usual, playing up the audience and smirking out at them as though this is a late-night show instead of a debate. Regina sits next to him, back ramrod-straight beside his slouch, and she forgets to smile for the first twenty minutes of the debate. Emma tries desperately to catch her eye and fails, defeated.

 

It’s a town hall debate, which means that the audience is providing the questions and the moderator is only fielding them halfheartedly. “I want to know how Killian Jones is going to use his Broadway experience in Town Hall,” someone says, and Anna coos and says, “Excellent question,” and then frowns as she remembers that it’s Regina’s turn to answer first.

 

Regina says, her smile tight-lipped, “I think that with the increased revenue from improved business income, we can arrange some community theater. When I’m in office, I will have monthly events scheduled throughout the year–” 

 

“And on and on she goes,” Jones says, grinning roguishly at the audience. “Regina is all talk and no substance.” Regina nearly chokes onstage, and Emma takes the opportunity to wave subtly, catching Regina’s gaze at last and mouthing  _ smile!  _ to her.

 

“Yes,” Regina says dryly, smiling again. “All these silly  _ policies _ . So little grandstanding.” 

 

Jones blinks at her, bewildered. 

 

The next question is about schools, and Jones says, “I know these schools. I grew up in Storybrooke, you know.” The audience applauds madly. “Schooling is important to me. Probably one of the most important issues. And I’m going to make every school in town the strongest, best they’ve ever been. Best teachers. Strongest sports teams. Go Paladins!” he says, pumping his fist, and Emma shakes her head in disgust. The audience roars.

 

Regina says, “What I see when I look at Storybrooke schools is a lot of funding that can go toward more extensive, all-inclusive programs. We need more vocational training for students who would benefit from it. We need stronger backing for girls’ sports. We need more top-heavy elementary school faculty, especially as the schools have been expanding in recent years.” 

 

“She was on the debate team,” Jones says, winking at the audience. “Not too long ago, even. What has it been, three years? Four?” 

 

Emma thrusts her hand into the air. Regina says, teeth gritted, “Nearly a decade.” 

 

“She’s  _ cute _ ,” Jones says in a stage whisper. Emma glares at Anna, who looks complacent with the turn that the debate is taking. “Isn’t she cute?” 

 

Regina’s lips twist. “I think I’m a little older than your usual,” she says. “You’ll find that the mayoral position has very little to do with how you look, and much more to do with that little bit of fluff you have between your ears.” There are some gasps in the audience. A ripple of amusement. None of them notice the regret that flits across Regina’s face.

 

She isn’t supposed to lose her temper. Jones is going to provoke her, they’ve all known it, and Regina is supposed to remain placid and neutral, calm and focused on the debate instead of lowering herself to his level. Emma wills Regina patience, waits until Regina is smiling again, until Emma can fantasize about punching Jones in the face in peace.

 

And so it continues. Regina’s responses are cutting and incisive, and Jones oohs with the audience, clasps a hand to his chest in mock injury. The audience loves it, loves  _ him _ , and regards Regina with polite interest. 

 

That’s fine. It’s  _ fine _ . Regina isn’t here to play up to the audience. She’s here to let them know that she cares about Storybrooke. And she shows  _ that  _ in every answer she gives. “This town is important to me,” Regina says after one probing question about her mother. “My mother instilled that importance in me from a young age, before I realized that my vision and her vision of this town were at odds. And I might not be able to promise flashy celebrity antics–” Jones preens. Regina addresses the audience with sincerity. “But I can promise you that I will do everything in my power to make sure that this is a town we can all be proud to live in.” 

 

She gets thunderous applause for that, and some hoots that are certainly coming from Lost Boys. “Talk, talk, talk,” Jones scoffs, looking far too smug for someone who has yet to give a single real answer to the audience. “Enough words. Here is  _ action _ .” 

 

Regina blinks at him, and she says, “I think even Anna Arendelle might draw the line at you signing autographs during our debate.”

 

Jones stands, drawing something from his seat with a flourish. “ _ Here _ ,” he says. “Less playacting, more plans. I have some plans that I’ve already consulted with a developer to draw here. It’s a planned restoration of one of those broken-down parks in the slums– you know what I’m talking about?” he asks the audience. Emma stares hard. He can’t mean–

 

It’s  _ that  _ park, the one where she and Mulan had followed Neal a couple of weeks ago. Jones is planning on  _ fixing it up _ ? Had Neal talked him into it? “I will not rest until every park in town is a safe, beautiful place to bring your children. No more Lost Boys loitering,” he announces grandly, evoking a second cheer and some boos. “A quiet idyll for families to enjoy.” 

 

Emma scowls at him, but she can hear the murmurs of approval, of impressed townspeople who hadn’t expected anything so concrete from Killian Jones. Regina looks flustered onstage, taken aback by this twist. “ _ You  _ care about that park?” she says dubiously, leaning forward to peer at the plans.

 

Jones tucks them away. “I care about Storybrooke being bigger than ever,” he promises the audience. “I care about putting this town on the map. And our resident college dropout can write a dozen essays about her  _ policies _ , but she can’t man up and actually fix anything.” 

 

It doesn’t look good, and Regina freezes, uncertain. Anna looks patiently at her, waits for a rebuttal and then shrugs and turns to the audience. “Anyone else? Yes, you?” 

 

Someone in the back has stood up, and there’s another murmur as he clears his throat, as Anna looks suddenly chagrined. “You,” she sighs, and Regina’s eyes widen as she catches sight of the speaker as well.

 

Emma turns. “I have a question for Killian Jones,” Neal says, and Emma freezes, afraid of what might come next. But Neal says, eyes glinting hard, “I’ve spoken to the same developers. What do you say to their statements that you plan on razing the park and the whole block beside it to replace it with luxury housing and an extension to the country club?” 

 

_ What _ . Jones’s eyes widen, and Emma twists between the stage and Neal, sees that lazy grin on Neal’s face, almost mocking– sees the relief in Regina’s eyes as the audience murmurs again, this time more darkly– sees Jones looking trapped onstage. “It seems that Mr. Jones has no response to that,” Regina says sleekly. “That neighborhood houses dozens of Storybrooke families.” She looks suddenly grim. “We can only hope that, come November, they will remember exactly what Killian Jones plans to do to their homes.” 

 

The clapping is loud, strong, if not hoots and cheers like Jones evokes. The clapping for Jones is more subdued, and there’s one shouted “ _ Asshole! _ ” that sounds suspiciously like Peter before Anna opens for closing statements. 

 

Emma cheers, relieved that this has ended painlessly, and she waits until Regina steps down from the stage before she runs to her. Marian is already there, arms tight around Regina while onlookers watch them avidly, and Regina laughs and pulls away from Marian, eyes bright, and catches sight of Emma.

 

She freezes, eyes still shining, and there is a yearning to her gaze, a softness that makes Emma shiver with wanting. She wants to race into Regina’s embrace, to kiss her and spin her around in celebration at a successful debate, to link arms and hold onto her and never let go.

 

Instead, she steps aside carefully, letting Neal make his way past her to Regina. “Regina,” he says, his smile lopsided and a little uncertain. Emma still has questions– maybe that’s what Neal had been doing with Ivy Belfrey, but there are still too many facts that don’t add up, too many inconsistencies and that strange connection to Jones that he’s never mentioned. Emma doesn’t know if she trusts him anymore, doesn’t even know if that question had been meant for Jones or meant to prove his loyalty to Regina again–

 

Maybe she’s overthinking it. Maybe she’s gotten in too deep, and she’s seeing conspiracies instead of a stilted reunion. And when Neal says, “We still have a campaign to win, don’t we?” to Regina, maybe Emma should be taking it at face value instead of watching Tamara watch Neal and Regina speculatively, with nausea roiling in Emma’s stomach.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your enthusiasm!!! You continue to make writing this endless fic a supremely enjoyable experience. <3

**SEPTEMBER 28**

_38 Days Until the General Election_

 

“This had better not be a date,” Emma says warningly to her. It’s late at night– morning, really, after midnight on the morning before the street fair, and Regina has insisted on a walk before bed. They’d been out until eleven at night with the rest of the team, putting up posters and street signs all along Main Street where the fair is scheduled to take place.

 

It’s one of the most important events that the town has for increasing annual revenue, especially at the start of autumn when the leaf peepers begin to filter into town. Local vendors have set up tables along the street on Saturday, preparing for the early-morning Sunday event. The campaign has peppered the space between tables with lawn signs, and they’ve taped up signs on store windows and set up two booths on either end of the closed-off Main Street.

 

And now, finally, the others have gone to sleep, and Regina had vanished for a little while and then returned to tug Emma out on a walk. “I had dibs on taking you out,” Emma reminds her.

 

Regina frowns. “You _did_. The morning of the debate, remember?”

 

“That didn’t count. I didn’t take you anywhere,” Emma says dismissively. “A _real_ date. I called it.”

 

Regina shrugs, mock offended. “Do you think I can’t show you a good time?”

 

Emma twists to give her a sly look, her hand falling into Regina’s as though it had been meant for it. “I think you’ve done that plenty of times. But I get the first date.”

 

“Well, this isn’t a date,” Regina says, pursing her lips together. “It’s just a walk. At night. With my girlfriend.”

 

Emma nudges her. “Sap.”

 

Regina eyeballs her. “Child.”

 

“ _Cute_ ,” Emma says definitively, and she glances around for a moment. Satisfied that they’re alone, she leans in. Regina kisses her happily, pressing her against a table and knocking kitschy magnets everywhere.

 

“Oh, no,” she says, laughing, and Emma kneels to pick them up, setting them clumsily back onto the table. Guiltily, Regina tries to arrange them as they’d been before she’d pushed Emma into them. She’s definitely off, but it’s _close_. Maybe.

 

Emma perks up. “Look,” she says, holding what is undoubtedly a cartoon version of Regina on a magnet with exaggerated features. On the other side is a Jones cartoon, complete with a little hook for one hand. “I’m gonna buy it.”

 

Regina gapes at it, then at Emma. “You are _not_ . It’s a travesty.” Her face is much too wide, her lips too puffy, her eyes smug and her eyebrows so arched that she looks perpetually unimpressed. It’s not the _worst_ she’s seen, maybe.

 

“I’m gonna buy it and put it on our–” Emma freezes, and the humor fades from Regina’s smile. “On your– on your mom’s fridge,” she says finally, the joke falling flat. “Or mine. When I get that apartment.”

 

“Get duplicates,” Regina says wanly. Emma is still staring at her like a deer trapped in headlights, uncertain and afraid of what she might say next, and Regina swallows and says, forcing herself to smile back, “We’ll get you that apartment. Have you gotten a chance to look through the local listings?”

 

Emma nods. “Nothing looked great in my price range,” she admits. “Maybe I need to be looking for…a roommate or something. Ruby says there are some long-term rooms at Granny’s that might be available soon at a cheaper price, so I can check those out…” Her voice trails off, and she looks anxious.

 

Regina hurries to respond. “That’s a great idea,” she says swiftly. Emma wants this apartment, and she must sense that Regina is dreading it, if her uncertainty about it is any sign. Regina won’t do this to her, won’t let her feel trapped when she’s searching for freedom. Instead, she forces another smile and reaches down to help Emma pick up the last of the magnets.

 

And then stills, crouched on the ground, because the sign in front of them, between the two tables, isn’t a **_LET’S TAKE BACK STORYBROOKE_** sign. It features Killian Jones instead, has the caption **_GET HOOKED ON STORYBROOKE!_** , and is exactly where they’d put up a sign two hours ago.

 

“No,” she says, straightening, and she looks around at Main Street for the first time since they’d started their walk. Their signs are gone, replaced with Jones campaign signs. The ones they’d put up on store windows have been torn down, left in shreds on the ground, and Regina gapes in horror. “ _No_!”

 

“ _Fuck_ no,” Emma agrees, squinting around. “We left…what, an hour ago? Two? How did they already manage to do this? Were they just _waiting_?”

 

“We have to call the others,” Regina says, pulling out her phone. “Get them back here. There’s no way in _hell_ that Killian Jones is going to get away with this.” She wakes up a drowsy Tamara as Emma texts Mulan, and then hesitates. “I don’t want to bother Sabine and Jacinda,” she admits. “They’re up early for the bakery. And the street fair is a big deal for them.” Mother continues her embargo on the bakery. They’ve had three surprise health code inspections in the past week. It only serves to make Sabine and Jacinda even more determined to win, but Regina feels a burst of guilt every time they’re at the office instead of the bakery.

 

Her mother will _not_ ruin anymore Storybrooke lives. Regina is determined to make sure of that. “Tamara will bring Neal. That’s five of us. We can redo the signs before morning.”

 

“Assuming Tamara brings Neal,” Emma points out, and she glances at Regina for a moment, both of them uncertain. “Maybe we should call him, too.”

 

“Maybe.” But neither of them moves to get a phone again. Instead, they stand awkwardly at the magnet vendor’s table, staring at each other.

 

Neal is back, but their interactions are still stilted, hold none of the ease that they had before he’d left. Instead, Regina finds herself finding reasons to avoid him, to speak to Tamara and hope that messages get through to him. He watches her sometimes, opens his mouth as though he’s going to speak and then snaps it shut. It’s been strange, gravitating toward him and then remembering herself, not quite close again but returning to their routine.

 

She _hates_ fighting with him.

 

It’s a relief when he arrives with Tamara, Mulan half-asleep in the back seat. “What were you two doing out this late?” Neal asks stiffly.

 

“Walking,” Emma says, shrugging self-consciously. No one has had the temerity yet to admit that Regina and Emma are kind of _together_ to Neal, and they’ve kept it that way. “If Sidney Glass is going to stalk Regina through town, we’re going to rob him of his sleep until he regrets it.” Neal looks around, alarmed, and Emma says, “Joke. It’s a joke.”

 

“Oh.” After that, they get back to work, unpacking new signs from the office and putting them up along the street. There isn’t much talking for the next hour, just exhausted setup and some mild defacement of the one Killian Jones sign they leave up, just beside one of their tables for the fair. Emma draws in a handlebar moustache and an eyepatch, and Neal says, “Wait,” and takes the marker, adding a little parrot onto his shoulder.

 

“There,” Neal says, satisfied, and Emma shakes her head, catching Regina’s eye. Regina’s brow furrows.

 

“Let’s go back to the car,” Emma says loudly, and Regina gives her a bewildered look but follows. The others pile into the car, Regina squashed into the back between Mulan and Emma, and Emma says, “Drive away. Make a U-turn, shut off your headlights, and come back around. Then shut off the car. Someone was watching us.”

 

“Damn.” Neal whistles. “They’re really lying in wait for us, aren’t they?”

 

“I am _not_ coming back at five in the morning to put up new signs,” Emma hisses. “Let’s confront them when they show themselves. They’d better come out soon.”

 

“You wouldn’t know much about that,” Neal mutters, and Regina tenses.

 

Emma says, her voice hard, “Excuse me?”

 

Neal holds up a hand. “Joke. It’s a joke,” he says, echoing Emma from earlier.

 

Emma’s eyes narrow. “If you want to make jokes about shifty people skulking around at night–”

 

It’s Mulan who says, “ _Emma_ ,” this time. Tamara is watching Emma in the rearview mirror. Mulan is staring at Tamara, and Neal is staring straight ahead while Emma glares into the back of his seat. Regina looks around the car, thoroughly bewildered at the sudden shift in conversation.

 

“What’s going–”

 

“ _There_ ,” Emma says, and she throws the car door open at once, barreling down Main Street toward what looks like a figure moving at their table.

 

“Emma–” But Emma’s already gone, her phone on the floor of the car as she charges at the figure. There’s a flash of movement– Emma shouts and starts making loud, coughing noises– and Neal hisses “ _Shit_ ,” and is launching himself from the car as Regina hurtles after him. The others are right behind them, Mulan passing them a moment later, and she throws herself at the figure as Regina crouches down beside Emma, her heart pounding.

 

“It’s fine,” Emma mumbles, batting Regina away blindly. “I’m fine. I think. She got me with her Mace, but just barely. Give me a minute.” She blinks a few times until she can see Regina in front of her and smiles.

 

“She?” Neal says, joining her crouch. He rises again, turning to where Mulan has the figure pinned, and his brow furrows. “Isn’t that…?”

 

Aurora Rose, Mary Margaret Blanchard’s onetime campaign manager, blinks up at them fearfully. “Let me go,” she says, flailing at Mulan. “Let me _go_. I didn’t do anything.”

 

“You have a bag of campaign signs for Jones,” Mulan points out, still seated on top of her. “I thought you were with the MAF.”

 

“I _was_ . I’d rather you people win than Jones, anyway,” Aurora says huffily, glancing up at Regina. “Especially since you ditched that ass you had as candidate. I don’t have a _choice_ , okay? Cora Mills owns me.”

 

Regina remembers, in a flash of realization, Jones’s offer on the day of the primary, the pictures of Aurora breaking into her own campaign office to pin it on Emma. “She does, doesn’t she?” she says, feeling very little sympathy toward the woman. Maybe a tiny bit. No one deserves to be under Mother’s thumb, even a woman who had given in to her unsavory offerings. The others blink at Regina, confused, and Regina says, “How late were you ordered to be out here?”

 

Aurora looks up at Regina, red-eyed and defeated. “All night,” she says. “You were supposed to wake up to Jones’s signs.”

 

“Go home,” Emma says, glaring at her past the rapid blinking.

 

“I _can’t_ ,” Aurora says. “If I leave, Cora will–” She stops, her eyes flickering back to Regina again. “I can’t go.”

 

Tamara sighs. “Fine. Mulan, bring her back to the car. We’re not letting her out of our sight until morning.” Mulan helps Aurora to her feet, grabbing her and flicking the Mace out of her hands when Aurora tries to run. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

 

“You don’t understand,” Aurora says, glaring balefully at them. “I’m _screwed_ if I don’t get those signs up. Cora’s going to ruin my _life_.”

 

Regina knows her mother, knows how she gains allies who want only to escape her. “She’s going to do that regardless,” she says calmly. “Look. You’re…you’re still young.” She’s younger than Regina herself, maybe close to Mulan’s age. “You can–” She stops at the car. Someone had shut the doors during their mad dash for Emma, and she turns expectantly to Tamara, who is staring at the car with sudden trepidation. “Tamara. Do you have your keys?”

 

Tamara shakes her head. “The doors auto lock,” she says. “I must have left my bag inside.”

 

* * *

 

They’re locked out. To be more specific, they’re locked out, and Tamara’s car keys are locked in, as are Emma’s phone, Regina’s bag with her phone and house keys, Tamara’s bag and phone, and Neal’s keys. Mulan is the only one who’d had her keys in her pocket, which is of no help to them, as she’s the only one who lives at her parents’ house.

 

Neal says, “I still have my phone. I can call Jacinda and get her spare key to Regina’s place.” At their confusion, he explains, “Regina has my keys. And I have a key to Tamara’s car.”

 

“No one wakes up Jacinda,” Regina says, shaking her head. “She needs her sleep. So does Sabine,” she says immediately when Tamara opens her mouth. “The bakery is struggling enough right now without us waking them up at two in the morning.”

 

“I’ll text her,” Neal sighs, stalking off to the side to type out the text. Tamara drifts off with him, leaving the four of them alone.

 

Aurora says, “This is ridiculous. You can’t hold me _hostage_ for the night.”

 

“What are you going to do? Go to the sheriff’s station and tell Sheriff Nolan what you’ve been up to?” Mulan demands, glaring at her. “You’re despicable.”

 

“I didn’t have a _choice_ ,” Aurora says, and she looks close to tears, frustrated and lost in that unique way that Cora Mills brings out in the best of people. Emma feels a flash of compassion, unbidden.

 

Mulan softens a hair, too. A hair. “There’s always a choice,” she says grimly, and Aurora looks up at her in injured distress. “But you’re going to help us and the MAF. What else has Cora had you do?” Aurora refuses to respond. Mulan shrugs. “Fine. We have all night.”

 

Regina walks on away from them, and Emma follows, throwing a glance back at Mulan. “Is she going to be okay with Aurora?”

 

Regina snorts. “The girl is a little wisp. And she’s run out of Mace. How are you feeling?” she asks, turning to examine Emma’s eyes.

 

Emma blinks. They’re still a little watery, but she’d barely caught a sting when she’d ducked out of the way. “Dumb,” she admits. “I should have seen the Mace in the first place. We’d all have our keys then.”

 

“It’s dark,” Regina says, and she passes a hand over Emma’s face gently, stroking her cheek. “And it’s not your fault none of us thought about the car. We were worried about you.”

 

Emma scoffs. “Neal was worried we might be stuck in that car together for a little longer,” she says wryly. He’s been cautious around Regina, but bordering on snide around Emma, brusque and irritable in a very un-Neal way. She supposes that she deserves it, but she’s pretty much only willing to tolerate it if he steps up and starts treating Regina like a _sister_ again. With his loyalties in question, it’s only his connection to Regina that really stands in his defense.

 

Regina shakes her head and sighs. “We’ll all hash it out. Eventually.” She glances up at the sky, the dim sliver of moon lightening the sky. “I guess we have all night.”

 

She looks particularly glum about that, and Emma says, “So much for our date, huh?”

 

“We’ll get another chance,” Regina promises, and Emma jabs a finger at her.

 

“Ha! It _was_ a date!” she crows, and then narrows her eyes. “I had _dibs_! You don’t get to trick me into going out with you–”

 

“You came willingly,” Regina scoffs. “And _anyway_ , if I hadn’t, we could have missed all those signs–”

 

“We could have been in _bed_ , preparing for the date _I_ was going to take you on tonight–” She’d had it all planned out, had found a restaurant a dozen miles from Storybrooke that is dark and inviting, and she’d almost made reservations before she’d decided to check with Regina first. “You undercut me!”

 

Regina manages to look guilty and smug at once. Emma shakes her head, outraged and remarkably fond. “I can’t believe you,” she says. “That first date was _mine_.”

 

“It should have been mine,” Regina retorts, unmoved. “You said you’ve never been on a date before.” She scowls at Emma. “I’m going to take you out first.”

 

“We have had _plenty_ of firsts, Regina,” Emma points out, and Regina sighs heavily. “Let me treat you, okay?” She reaches for Regina, craving her touch again– as she always does, because it’s been weeks and she still can’t quite believe that they _have_ this– and Regina tucks into her arm, laying her head against Emma’s shoulder, her forehead resting against Emma’s neck. “Anyway, I’ve been on dates. Kind of. I did this bit where I helped out a bounty hunter for a while as a honey pot.” She licks her lips. “I’d go out with creeps and then Cleo would charge in and arrest them. It worked for a while.”

 

“What happened?”

 

Emma remembers blood, terror, another rare connection that she’d made gone with the wind. “She died,” she murmurs, and Regina tucks herself into Emma’s side more tightly, her arm winding around Emma’s waist protectively.

 

“I’m sorry,” Regina whispers, and Emma wonders what it might be like, to keep this precious new connection with her for forever. She yearns to stay here, to find a place where she belongs at last in Storybrooke and with Regina–

 

Regina, who is patiently waiting for her to move out. Emma stares blankly into store windows, her mood shifting, and she jolts back to the present when Neal clears his throat from behind them. “Mulan is asking for you,” he says to Emma, and Emma nods jerkily, feeling Regina’s arm relax against her and fall. “I think she wants to move Aurora somewhere else. There’s a chilly breeze coming from the water.”

 

Regina straightens, and Emma glances at her and remembers _I guess we have all night_. “I’ll be right back,” she promises Regina, and she stares hard at Neal and then stalks past him, leaving him alone with Regina.

 

* * *

 

There is a moment of strained silence after Emma leaves, and Regina keeps her breathing even and stares up at the moon, arms wrapped tightly around herself. “Hey,” Neal says, draping his jacket over her. “Not exactly how you planned on spending your night, huh?”

 

She looks up at him, ensconced in his jacket. It’s a very Neal thing to do, gallant and a tiny bit wrong-headed, because she’s wearing a jacket of her own and hadn’t been cold. Still, she appreciates the gesture. It’s a step, tiny and barely noticeable to anyone on the outside. But Regina notices it all. “Not really, no,” she says stiffly.

 

“Yeah.” Neal slides to the ground, perching on the edge of the sidewalk, and Regina sits carefully next to him. “I think I might’ve slammed my door shut without thinking. It’s a habit, you know? And I saw Emma go down and I didn’t…I didn’t think. Again,” he says, a little rueful, and Regina looks at him.

 

“Again,” she repeats, questioning. If this is the moment when he reams her out for what had happened with Emma–

 

But he just runs a hand through his hair and says, “The thing I kept coming back to– I mean, I was fucked up about all of it, but the one thing was–” He shakes his head, his eyes gentling. “You said it had been hell for you,” he says, and something within Regina uncoils.

 

“It was,” she murmurs. “I know– I know it isn’t your fault–”

 

“You were miserable,” Neal says, and he turns to stare at her, his eyes raw and anguished. “You were _miserable_ , and I didn’t _know_ . What the _fuck_ was I doing, that I didn’t know my little sister was miserable?” He shuts his eyes and then opens them again, the same despair in his eyes. “What am I _doing_ , Regina? I’m supposed to protect you–”

 

“You’ve done enough,” Regina says swiftly, relieved only that this is over, that they can go back to how things were now. “You’ve always done enough–”

 

“Yeah?” Neal demands, his eyes stormy. “Because I didn’t do a damn thing for you after Daniela.” He grinds the words out furiously, as though they’ve been ricocheting through his mind for weeks, months, even years.

 

Regina blinks at him, taken aback. “I never expected you to…you weren’t around. I had Marian. I even had Zelena.”

 

“You didn’t have _me_ .” Neal’s hands clench into fists. “ _God_ , Regina, I was such a _coward_. I heard what had happened– you know that Robin was the one to contact me? It was the only good thing he’s ever done. And I was so fucking afraid of my fucking father that I didn’t jump on the next flight and go to you.” Regina stares at him, feels very fragile with this admission, with the quiet knowledge that Neal could have absolutely done more.

 

She has never asked for more from him, has always treasured what bare minimum of support he’s given her. He’s been here for her when she’s asked for him, and that had been more family than she’s ever had, more love than she’d ever known. “I’ve been furious with myself for years over it,” Neal admits. “I was…I didn’t even go to our parents’ wedding because I was too ashamed to face you. And when you floated the idea of this campaign…I just wanted to something _right_ for you.”

 

He looks at her as though she holds power over him, as though she alone can grant him absolution. And suddenly, she’s tired, tired after nearly a month spent giving him time, after months and months of being hopelessly in love with Emma and determined only to sacrifice herself for him, _again_ . “I needed you after Daniela,” Regina agrees tightly. “But that’s over. I needed you _now_ . I didn’t need you to take a month away to…I don’t know, _punish_ me? What the hell did you need to process?” she demands. “That Emma could fall in love with someone else? You took her for granted. You _broke her heart_ and then never bothered taking her out on a date. What did you think would happen? How did you think it would end?”

 

Neal stares at her, his eyes wide and remorseful, and Regina just wants to cry with exhaustion. “I was miserable, yes. She wasn’t happy, either. And we were…and we both spent so much time trying to spare your feelings as though you aren’t a thirty-two-year-old man who should have been perfectly capable of _noticing_. Of stepping up and– and–”

 

It isn’t _fair_ , what she wants to say, what she’d desperately hoped for for so many months and refused to admit. A scene like something from a romantic comedy, the odd angle out of the love triangle realizing at last that the noble thing to do is to step aside. Neal giving her his blessing, every relationship preserved without Regina being selfish or hurting anyone she loves.

 

It isn’t _fair_ , but she’d craved it all the same, and she’d been terrified to ever verbalize it. “You wanted me to notice,” Neal says slowly. “Because you’d have never asked it of me.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I fucked up. I keep fucking up. But I could have cost you–”

 

“I mean, your girlfriend and I _were_ having an emotional affair under your nose,” Regina admits grudgingly. “It’s not like we were blameless.”

 

“You were in love,” Neal murmurs, and his eyes glow, a smile spreading across his face. “Regina, you’re in _love_. I’ve been waiting for this day for so long. In love!” he repeats, and there is no more conflict on his face, only sheer delight.

 

Regina glances around. “Stop saying that,” she hisses, finding Emma all the way down the road. She’s offered Aurora her own jacket, a kindness which seems to have struck Aurora dumb, and Aurora is cooperating with Mulan and Emma silently.

 

Neal’s eyes round. “You haven’t told her?”

 

“It’s _Emma_ ,” Regina reminds him crankily. “All I need is for her to run scared _now_.”

 

Neal puts up a hand. “As a fellow member of the Loving Emma Club,” he says glibly, and she gives him a dark look, “I have to say that she’s absolutely _obsessed_ with you. If I hadn’t been so sure she was straight, I might have even realized a little bit sooner that she was a fellow member of the Loving Regina Club.” He wrinkles his nose. “Though…maybe in a different part of that club. Anyway. You should tell her.”

 

In lieu of her phone or bag, Regina takes off Neal’s coat and throws it at him. “ _Please_ . I am _not_ going to sabotage this by coming on too strong.”

 

“Are you two at least dating?” Neal demands, to which Regina freezes, uncertain of what she’s supposed to be telling him. Neal shakes his head in disgust. “You _do_ need my help.”

 

“Shut up,” Regina says irritably. “You know who needs your help? Jacinda and Sabine. My mom is using your dad’s properties to try to take the bakery from them. They aren’t going to ask you, but–”

 

“Yeah, of course,” Neal says, bobbing his head. “And…listen. I know I can keep saying that I’m going to be a better brother to you until I’m blue in the face, but it doesn’t mean anything if I can’t…” His voice trails off. “Listen,” he says again, slipping an arm around her. “I love you. And I want you to stop putting me first when it’s your happiness on the line, okay? Go date Emma. Go be…deliriously happy and touchy-feely in front of me. She’s been out of my league since the day I met her. You two deserve each other.” He looks over at Emma, his eyes warm and affectionate, and Regina watches until she can see the hint of melancholy in his eyes, the hint of wistfulness.

 

She leans into his arm, out of reassurances when her heart is still thumping in her chest at the way she’d fought him, and Neal presses a kiss into her hair. “We’re gonna be okay,” he says. “I’m going to make sure of it. I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Regina and Neal have been sitting together for what seems like forever, and Emma sneaks glances out at them and wonders what it is that they’re talking about. Regina’s expression had gone from chagrined to angry to a sort of mix between relief and humiliation, and Neal is smiling at her with all the warmth that he has to give her.

 

Good. Finally, it seems like they’re hashing out everything. Neal gestures to Emma more than once, his expression impish, and Regina looks as though she wants to sink into the ground. Emma waves once, and Regina gives her a pained look.

 

Emma takes pity on her and turns back to Mulan, who is watching Aurora warily. They’ve set her up in front of the alleyway that had led to Mulan’s secret restaurant. It’s warmer there, no chill from the wind, and Aurora huddles in Emma’s jacket and stares at the wall opposite her. “She’s terrified of Cora,” Mulan says in a low tone. “But I think she’s too tired to run now. She still won’t tell me what she’s done.”

 

“Regina knows,” Emma says, remembering the way that Regina had reacted to Aurora. “Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than spending the rest of her life at Cora’s beck and call.”

 

Mulan kneels down in front of Aurora. “We can help you,” she promises. “I don’t know how bad it is, but–”

 

“She can press charges,” Aurora says dully. “Have me arrested. I don’t want to go to jail.”

 

Mulan reaches for her hand, her gaze hard and determined. “Tell me what you’re afraid of,” she says. “If anyone can face Cora on your behalf, it’s us.”

 

Aurora looks at her as though Mulan might be her lifeline. Emma watches them, bemused. There’s a little flush to Aurora’s face when she looks at Mulan, and Aurora _is_ pretty, in a bitchy high-maintenance kind of way. Not that Emma knows _that_ type.

 

Mulan, it seems, might just have a thing for being a knight in shining armor. Emma smiles to herself, moving away from Mulan and Aurora and wandering to where Tamara is making a strong, failed attempt to break into her own car. “This is ridiculous,” she huffs, wiggling what looks like a hairpin into the lock. “Didn’t you used to break into cars?”

 

“Really old ones,” Emma says, squinting at the lock. “I think this is outside my pay grade.” She fiddles with the hairpin, but she can’t piece together the mechanism from it. “Neal and Regina are finally talking it out,” she says instead, conversationally.

 

Tamara breathes out. “Oh, thank god. I have spent the past _month_ yelling at Neal,” she says, shaking her head. “He gets so stuck in his own head that he doesn’t even realize that he’s being an asshole. I get that you’re a catch and all, Emma, but the guy treated you like a kid sister, too. He wasn’t in love with you.” She’s watching Emma carefully as she says that, as though evaluating her reaction.

 

Which is…relief, mostly, and a twinge of suspicion. “Are you in love with him?” Emma blurts out.

 

Tamara throws back her head and laughs. “Emma, you _are_ all about the conspiracy theories these days, aren’t you?” And her eyes are knowing now, sharp with warning, and Emma takes a step backward. “I know what you’ve been up to, and I am telling you this for your own good– _stop digging_.”

 

“Wow,” Emma says, and this time she doesn’t step back. There is a reckless part of her that recoils at the idea of being told what to do even now, that resists Tamara’s warning. “That’s definitely not something that someone who’s up to no good might say,” she says dryly.

 

Tamara rolls her eyes upward. “Emma, this isn’t… _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ or whatever teen heroine kids are watching these days. Don’t get involved. Don’t drag Mulan into this, either. You don’t _want_ the answers you’re going to get.” She leans forward, her eyes deadly serious, and Emma refuses to stand down. They meet, eye-to-eye, and Emma watches Tamara and puzzles over what it can be that might have her so defensive. “Back. Off.”

 

Before she can respond, they’re illuminated by a spotlight, and Tamara stumbles backward, her eyes hardening as she pats at her clothes frantically and then holds up her hands. Emma keeps her own hands down, blinking into the spotlight. “Who’s there?” David Nolan calls out, squinting at them as he waves his flashlight. “Peter, if you’re tampering with the tables again before the– oh,” he says, blinking as they come into view. “Emma. What’s going on here?”

 

Emma gestures weakly at the car. Tamara still has her hands up in front of her, her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched, and Emma says, “We got locked out. Can you put that down, please?”

 

David puts his flashlight down sheepishly, blinking around at the dimly lit Main Street. He takes in the scene: Neal and Regina down the street, still sitting on the curb and chatting; Aurora on the floor in Emma’s jacket, eyes fixed on Mulan; and Tamara and Emma at the car with a hairpin stuck in the lock. “You need a ride home?” he offers.

 

Emma shakes her head. “We don’t have keys. It’s a long story.” Neal and Regina are standing up, eyeing David curiously and making their way down the street to them. “We’re mostly just keeping an eye out for our signs.”

 

“Sure,” David says, brow furrowing. “I thought we might have some kids out on a dare or something tonight. You aren’t the ones setting up camp in the woods, are you?”

 

Emma shakes her head. “In the woods?”

 

David shrugs, gesturing to the pathway behind Main Street that leads into the woods. “It’s been a weird night,” he says, shaking his head. “Emma, have you given any thought to my offer?”

 

“Offer?” Regina echoes, eyeing David with misgiving.

 

David’s brow wrinkles. “I’m not poaching your campaign staff, Regina,” he promises. “I think Emma would fit in well at the station after the election.”

 

“Oh.” Regina’s face is expressionless at that, and Emma’s heart aches. Is this too much permanence for her? Or does she want Emma with her at Town Hall? “That’s…you’d be lucky to have her,” Regina says finally, and David gives her a light, knowing smile and turns away.

 

“I’d better get home to the missus. My shift ended a half hour ago and we’re selling ornamental birdhouses at the street fair,” he says wryly. “My favorite. Sure you don’t need any help?”

 

They shake their heads. “I want to go see what he was talking about in the woods,” Neal announces once David has departed. “Who’s setting up camp in there? It’s a full month before Halloween.”

 

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Regina says airily. “And I’m not bringing Aurora to the woods. She’ll run free and wind up in a bear trap somewhere.”

 

Mulan snorts. Aurora looks offended. “I’ll stay with her,” Mulan promises, and Aurora smiles at her, mollified. “You go ahead to the woods–”

 

“Sounds like a waste of time,” Regina complains, and Emma eyes her suspiciously.

 

She isn’t the only one. “Seems like you really don’t want us to see whatever it is that’s in the woods,” Neal says, eyes narrowing. “I think we should go down there right now.”

 

“Neal, _no_!” But he’s already taking off, Regina calling out something aggrieved behind him as Emma follows after him.

 

She nearly crashes into him a moment later, barely sidestepping him and tripping on a tree root. “Ow. _Ow_ ,” she says, tumbling to the ground, and Neal holds out a hand to pull her up. “Thanks.”

 

They eye each other a little awkwardly, and Neal says, “So. Uh…meet any cute girls lately?” He winces. She winces. He says, “This must have been easier when it was me introducing you to my sister.”

 

“Your sister tried to fire me on the spot and spent the next few months telling me how much she loathed me,” Emma points out.

 

Neal scratches the back of his neck. “I really should have figured out earlier that she was into you.” Emma snorts, a tiny bit of tension filtering out of the space between them. “We were good together, weren’t we?” Emma refuses to answer _that_ , and Neal amends hastily, “I mean…you and I. We make good friends, too.”

 

“You want to be friends?” Emma says dubiously.

 

Neal grimaces. “I’m not going to say that I’m not in love with you, because I kind of…still am? Sorry,” he says swiftly, looking chastened at her glare. “I can’t _help_ it. But it’s…tempered now. I just really care about you. And I want you to be happy.”

 

“Yeah,” Emma says grudgingly, because she _does_ still care about Neal. They never should have gotten back together after Portland. Whatever had made them work back then has been gone for a while, to the point that she’s been hoping for an escape from him for a long time. But friends she can do. They’d always worked best when they’d been united by their concern for Regina, anyway. “I guess Regina was right along,” she says, twisting her fingers together. “About me being another blonde bimbo who was gonna screw you over.”

 

Neal laughs. “Regina was wrong about every bit of that,” he says, eyes twinkling. “I’m pretty sure she’s come to terms with it.”

 

“I’m pretty sure it’s time you considered _maybe_ , just maybe, you might be better off with a brunette,” Emma shoots back, her eyes flickering to the entrance to the woods, where Tamara and Regina are walking together.

 

She gets an eye roll for her suggestion. “If I had a penny every time someone suggested _that_ , I might be able to post Aurora’s bail,” Neal says dryly. “Let it go.”

 

They walk in companionable silence for a few minutes, and Neal says, suddenly, “Did you always know?”

 

Emma knows what he’s asking. “No,” she says. “Not at _all_ . I…I had this huge fight with Regina on the night of the primary, and then we were suddenly _kissing_ and I had _no idea_ what I was even doing except that I desperately wanted to do it again.” She laughs, a little sheepishly. “I was really confused at first. And I didn’t exactly have anyone to talk to, because Regina wasn’t talking to me at all, and it wasn’t like I could confide in you, and…I don’t know. I’m still sorting it all out.”

 

She can feel herself babbling, but it feels _good_ , getting some of this out. “Some days I’m sure I’m a lesbian. Then I’ll rethink it and decide I must be bisexual, or– maybe I’m just convincing myself that I like girls in the first place because I’m confused about my own feelings for Regina or– maybe I’m a fraud–”

 

“Hey,” Neal murmurs, and his arms are around her, big and comforting and without any expectation of more. “You don’t have to decide anything yet, okay? You’re still piecing a lot of things together. And you definitely aren’t a _fraud_ ,” he says, making a face. “I saw those pictures. A little too much of them, actually.”

 

Emma laughs wetly. It’s easy here, wrapped in Neal’s arms, to forget about all the baffling signs that seem to point to Neal being a traitor to the campaign. It’s easy when it’s just them to push aside the memory of Tamara warning Emma off with thinly veiled threats, to dismiss the secret history that Neal has with Jones and all of his suspicious behavior.

 

She finds that she wants to believe that it isn’t true, that there are reasonable explanations for every bit of it. Now that Neal is finally coming around– now that he and Regina are close again and he seems to genuinely want a friendship with Emma– _now_ , she can’t imagine why he would put in all this effort when he’s a turncoat. It’s so purely manipulative–

 

–but Tamara is probably the best political mind they have on the campaign team. Neal might not have the mind for these sort of machinations, but Tamara might, and maybe–

 

“Hey,” Neal says suddenly, jerking Emma from intrusive suspicions. “What the _hell_?”

 

* * *

 

“I think it’s sweet,” Tamara says loyally, putting an arm around Regina. Regina grimaces, refusing to look up at any of them. Tamara says, “You made a picnic for the bears. You really care about _all_ your townspeople.”

 

 _Oh_ . Not loyal at _all_.

 

Emma is holding her hand to her mouth, hiding her smile, and Regina glares at her, too. The picnic in the woods that she’d set up for Emma had been, while they’d been busy, co-opted by two little black bears. The picnic basket has been strewn across the woods, the meticulously prepared food gnawed at and swallowed whole, in some cases, and the bears are curled together in the ravine far below them, fast asleep on her picnic blanket.

 

“They’re cubs,” Neal notes. “We should get out of here before their mother shows up. What were you thinking, leaving out food in the woods?” He throws her a glance. “I guess this is why you’re too busy to date Emma, huh? You’ve got some stronger suitors.”

 

Emma holds up a hand, offended. “Okay, first of all, I am _definitely_ stronger than a baby bear, so–”

 

“I don’t think so,” Neal says mildly, and Emma’s eyes narrow. “Prove it. Wrestle the bear.”

 

Emma looks as though she might, in fact, go down there and wrestle a bear for Regina’s honor, and Regina says, “ _Or_ we could leave right now and not get eaten by an angry mama bear.”

 

She looks at Tamara for support, but Tamara holds up a hand. “I’m a city girl. I’m staying out of this.”

 

“It _was_ sweet,” Emma says, sliding an arm around Regina’s waist and pressing a kiss to her cheek. She pulls away to glower at Regina. “And absolutely uncalled for, because I had _dibs_.”

 

Neal says, “So are you two dating, or…?”

 

“They’re dating,” Tamara says. “I’m going to sleep on top of my car.” She turns and heads up the path again, Neal bounding after her.

 

Below them, in the ravine, another bear growls and Emma grabs Regina’s hand and pulls her with her up the trail. “Let’s get out of here,” she says fervently.

 

They find, amongst Mulan’s keys, a key to the office, and they stumble together into the office, locking the door before Maine wildlife decides to venture out past the ravine. Emma settles into one of the spinning chairs, Regina in the one beside her, and she reaches out to entwine their fingers, “This certainly was a date,” she says finally, yawning as she cranes her neck to make sure that Aurora is out.

 

Neal says sleepily from the next cubicle, “You’re counting _this_?”

 

“I know, I know,” Regina shoots back. “You finally went on a date with Emma. It wasn’t _your_ date, but–”

 

“We double-dated with a pair of black bears,” Emma says, bleary-eyed as she grins at Regina. “Which means it’s _my_ turn again. And I’m going to take you out. To a restaurant. Without your brother present.”

 

“Oh, so now I’m not a part of this relationship anymore,” Neal says mock-sulkily. Regina gives his chair a kick, sending him flying back into the next cubicle. He bangs against the wall and stays there, and Regina turns back to Emma, their hands still intertwined.

 

Emma is already asleep, and Regina exhales, raising their linked hands to brush a kiss against Emma’s knuckles. She drifts off soon after, only to be awakened what feels like an instant later.

 

The sun is rising, orange light filtering in through their office storefront, and Jacinda is standing in the doorway, dangling a pair of keys from her fingers. “Long night?” she says, taking them in.

 

Regina looks around. Mulan is still fast asleep, Aurora curled under Emma’s jacket beside her, awake and watching Mulan in silence. Neal is sprawled out, half on the desk in front of his chair. Tamara is draped over a fourth chair.

 

Emma’s hand is still in Regina’s, and she’s curled into her chair, knees up to her chin and head resting against them. There’s a faint smile on her face, and her eyes open slowly, taking in the room around them with sleepy confusion.

 

Regina watches her, her heart leaping in her chest with sheer affection, and she says to Jacinda, shaking her head, “You have no idea.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all, as always, for your wonderful feedback!! I've been in a bit of a writing slump, but we're still on target to finish the fic at 28 chapters. I MIGHT split up one chapter if it helps me feel better about it, though, so be warned!! 
> 
> And thank you to Maia for your tips on the coming arc!!

**OCTOBER 9**

_ 27 Days Until the General Election _

 

“So you had a hot date with Mary Margaret’s campaign manager,” Ruby says, leaning forward at the counter.

 

Mulan wrinkles her nose. “It wasn’t–” 

 

“It was cute,” Emma says teasingly, glad that there’s something to tease Mulan about. “The two of them hit it off right away on their night out. They even slept together.” 

 

Mulan shakes her head, outraged. “There were six of us!” Ruby whistles. Mulan gives her a dark look. “I just want to  _ help  _ her. She’s just some straight girl who’s all on her own.” 

 

They’re clustered at the counter at Granny’s while Regina talks to some of the townspeople at the table. As it turns out, Cora had been careful in how she’d attacked the bakery. That entire row of shops on Main Street have been targeted, rent shooting up to prices that border on illegal– or that  _ should  _ be. Their lawyer, Kathryn, is sitting with Regina, jotting down notes as they put together their case.

 

Gold shies away from giving out leases, which means that the shopkeepers have been given forty-five days notice before their rent skyrockets. “It’s going to kill small business in Storybrooke,” Regina says, shaking her head gravely. “Mr. Gold should know better than to think that we’re going to take this lying down.” 

 

The shopkeepers lean forward, each with another grievance, and Regina responds, her voice calm and solemn. Emma watches her, eyes soft and affectionate, and Ruby nudges her. “Speaking of straight girls,  _ Emma _ ,” she says, and Emma makes a face at her. “You seriously want to shack up in one of our rooms upstairs?” 

 

Emma shrugs. “I don’t know. I think I need something…a little more permanent longterm, I guess.” It fills her with a quiet gloom, imagining moving out of Regina’s apartment and striking out on her own. If not for awkward silences broken by Regina inquiring about her apartment hunt, she would linger in Regina’s apartment forever. 

 

Which is  _ not  _ the way that this should go. Emma might never have done this before, but she knows about what  _ should  _ be, and it isn’t that, living off Regina until Regina resents her for it.

 

“What isn’t permanent about Regina’s bedroom?” Ruby asks, and Mulan elbows her. “ _ Ow _ . I’m just saying! You lived with Neal for six months and never had a problem with  _ that _ . And I’ve seen you two together. You can’t even be  _ subtle  _ about how gone you are for each other. Regina would probably throw a fit if you left.”

 

“I don’t want to have the relationship I had with  _ Neal  _ with Regina,” Emma says, scrunching up her face. “I want to do this  _ right _ . I’ve never…I’ve never really had a relationship that I didn’t just fall into, you know?” She doesn’t want to  _ fall into  _ Regina. Regina is leagues above everyone else she’s ever kind-of dated, and Emma has a history of screwing up when confronted with everything she’s ever wanted. “She spends half her time watching me like I’m going to run scared again.” 

 

Mulan raises her eyebrows. “To be fair, that is your M.O.” 

 

“Shut up. I’m  _ trying _ .” She’s searching for those roots she’s dug deep into the ground, figuring out where she can go while keeping them intact. Regina could sever the deepest of them, the one that she treasures most, and it would break Emma entirely if she does.

 

This is what roots  _ are _ , letting herself stand tall so that a single bolt of lightning could fell her, and she is doing all she can to stay upright while terrified. “I have to do it right,” she repeats, her heart racing at the thought of screwing this up. “And that means getting a place of my own and proving that I’m going to stay this time– what?” she demands at their dubious looks. “I’m  _ going  _ to.” 

 

Ruby pats her hand. “I know you will. I don’t think that…” Mulan shoots her a look and Ruby cuts herself off. “Nothing,” she says swiftly. “What do I know?” 

 

Emma sighs, troubled. “I made some calls about one of the apartments around the corner from Jacinda and Sabine’s place. There’s a one-room that looks like it might be in my price range and isn’t…you know, the kind of place that my rich girlfriend won’t set foot into. The owner said he’d let me know soon.” She twists around, watching Regina as she listens to the shopkeepers. She has a hand entwined with an older man’s– Marco, the carpenter– and she’s nodding slowly, speaking in low tones.

 

Emma detaches herself from her friends and slips into the booth beside Regina, pressed up beside her as she talks. “What we need is to examine the town bylaws,” Regina declares, and the shopkeepers bob their heads. “I won’t let my mother take advantage of you all. You’ve been working on this street– have been cornerstones of this community– for far too long to be manipulated in this way.” 

 

“And when you’re mayor, you’ll help us?” says one skeptical shopkeeper. “What can you do against your mother?” 

 

Regina laughs. “When I’m mayor?” she repeats. “I don’t need to be mayor to help you. I just need a copy of the town ordinances.” She meets his eyes, her own sharp and knowing. “It’s never a question of power. It’s a question of determination.” 

 

Emma wants to clutch her hand under the table, to lean on her shoulder and bask in Regina at her very best. Instead, she watches the shopkeepers, her foot bumping against Regina’s comfortingly. “There is no one better equipped to take on Cora Mills than Regina Mills,” she promises. “Regina isn’t afraid of her mother, which already puts her one step ahead of the rest of you.” She looks pointedly at the shopkeeper who had spoken up, and he inclines his head in acquiescence.

 

“I’m going to do this for you,” Regina promises, and she holds gazes steadily, doesn’t smile, and the townspeople murmur and disperse, satisfied.

 

Kathryn sighs. “I can make a case about this being a retaliation increase, but not quickly enough that it won’t affect their next few rents. I’m not a real estate lawyer. See what you can find in the bylaws.” Regina rises to let her out of her side of the booth, the two of them lowering their voices as they talk strategy, and Emma wanders back to Mulan and Ruby, bored. 

 

“Regina’s working on saving all of Storybrooke,” she says conversationally. 

 

Ruby snorts. “What else is new?” She frowns. “Was Neal any help with this Main Street rent hike? His dad does, on occasion, listen to him.” 

 

Emma shakes her head. “He says he’s working on it, but…” She bites her lip. There’s no good way to say  _ Neal can’t be trusted right now _ , even to Ruby, and she looks to Mulan instead, a silent conversation in their gazes.

 

Mulan spreads her hands helplessly. “I don’t know, Emma,” she says finally. “He was doing recon for the debate when we saw him with Belfrey. Maybe I was wrong. And Aurora really needs help. She’s all alone.” 

 

“You don’t want to keep following Neal,” Emma says, immediately catching her drift. Mulan shrugs, looking guilty. “What about the connection we found– with the pool–” 

 

“Sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence,” Mulan murmurs. “Neal’s on our side. He always has been, and if the whole…you and Regina thing didn’t send him off the deep end, then I don’t think that this would.” She sighs, looking very tired. “You can keep digging, if you want. Just be careful, okay? We don’t need any more drama in this campaign. I’m already on probation in my program at school, and I can’t…”

 

“Okay,” Ruby says, looking between them. “ _ Someone’s _ going to have to fill me in before I start docking you two free cocoa.” 

 

Emma rolls her eyes. “I’ve gotta go,” she says, motioning to where Regina is wrapping up with Kathryn. “Mulan can tell all.” 

 

She jogs away to keep up with Regina, walking side-by-side with her with their arms swinging so their hands brush. It’s as intimate as they can get on Main Street. Emma had never been the handholding type with Neal, but with Regina, she craves it, wants the soft, little moments that she’s scoffed at in the past. 

 

In private, they still get them, and they duck into the campaign headquarters together, Regina drifting off to her office to make phone calls and Emma sending a few emails before she follows her into the office. 

 

“Hi,” she says, tugging down the window shade that they’d  _ finally _ , far too late, installed on the office window. She props herself up on the desk and sits, waiting for Regina to finish a terse phone call with the housing union. 

 

Regina scowls on the phone, sits stiffly and doesn’t look at Emma once, and she makes some choice comments and then slams the phone down. Almost immediately, she brightens, reaching for Emma. “Hi,” she replies, drawing Emma down onto her lap.

 

Emma frames Regina’s face with her hands, brushing her hair from her face and kissing her until Regina is smiling at her, eyes lazy and half-closed. “What’s going on?” she asks, her hands lingering on Emma’s shoulders. She looks at Emma sometimes like she’s a vision, like touching her like this is a revelation in itself.

 

Emma knows the feeling, and she settles onto Regina’s lap, laying her head against Regina’s shoulder. “Just wanted to be with you,” she mumbles, and Regina slides an arm around her and kisses her forehead.

 

* * *

 

There is no clause that can help the shopkeepers on Main Street, not where Regina can find them, and she scrolls through documents until she’s exhausted and Emma is pushing open the door to the apartment. “Hey,” she says, spotting the laptop at once. “I thought we had a rule about you doing work at night.” 

 

Regina closes the laptop, mustering up the falsest look of contrition that she can manage. “It’s a freelance job,” she says. “It has nothing to do with the election.” 

 

“It’s politics, ergo, it stays out of your relaxation time,” Emma says, shaking a finger at her. “Now sit down and tell me that you ate dinner without me.” Regina scoffs. Emma scowls at her. “ _ Eat _ .” 

 

They have leftover soup and garlic bread at the table, a quiet dinner that feels as domestic as every night here does. They tend to leave the office at different times these days, a far cry from the way they’d been glued together back before they’d been dating. Back then, every moment together in public had been their  _ only _ moments together, and they had found every excuse to spend more time in the other’s vicinity. There’s something intoxicating about knowing that Emma is going to come  _ home _ at the end of the day, about knowing that Regina doesn’t have to exist in stolen moments anymore. 

 

“What were you doing out so late?” Regina asks when they’re settled back on the couch after dinner, her head on Emma’s shoulder and her eyes closed. She might make noise about being parted from her work at night, but secretly, she thinks she’s been looking forward to it every day. She doesn’t know how she managed the bulk of this campaign without coming home to Emma, but she can’t imagine ever doing it again. “Secret missions with Mulan again?” 

 

Emma’s body tenses beneath Regina, and Regina looks up at her, her brow furrowing. “What is it?” 

 

Emma shrugs. “It’s nothing. Um…that apartment I mentioned was vacated. So the guy called and said I could take a look at it tomorrow. I went to walk past it and I guess I lost track of time.” 

 

“Oh.” It falls like a long, grim disappointment from her lips, and Regina grimaces, staring at the wall instead of looking to Emma.  _ That _ . She desperately wants Emma to  _ stay _ , to be here every night in this quiet idyll they’ve carved out for each other. But she’s also terrified of pushing too hard and driving Emma away, of holding her too tightly and losing her entirely. She wants to do this right.  _ Right  _ isn’t moving too quickly to last. “That’s…great.” 

 

Emma is watching her when Regina finally looks up, Emma’s eyes searching her face for something she won’t say aloud. Regina keeps her expression even, refusing to give away anything that might scare Emma away, and Emma exhales. “Yeah. I guess. Um…do you want to come look at it with me?” 

 

The voice that emerges from Regina’s lips feels alien, cool and dismissive in a way that she’d sworn she’d never be around Emma again. Hurt wells up, unfair and unasked for, and Regina says coldly, “I’m overloaded with the rent increase thing right now, and Tamara thinks we should have a proper rally before the end of the campaign. It’s not exactly ideal for apartment hunting.” 

 

The hurt in Emma’s eyes matches the regret that Regina feels welling up inside of her. “Oh,” she says. “I can– I can ask Ruby to come with me. She’s been helpful with this search.”  _ Unlike you _ , she doesn’t say, but Regina feels it anyway, particularly when Emma looks guilty and says, “I haven’t done any apartment hunting during work hours, I swear. I wouldn’t do that with the election so close.” 

 

Regina can’t bear this– any of this, really, but hurting Emma most of all. “I know,” she says swiftly, forcing her lips into a smile that feels false on them. “I know,” she repeats, and she closes her eyes and burrows into Emma’s side until she can feel the frustration and hurt fading to manageable levels. 

 

Emma exhales, and she brushes a kiss to the top of Regina’s head. “This’ll be good,” she says, and it sounds strained. “Having my own place. I haven’t had that since Tallahassee. I’ll be more…more settled in, then.” It sounds like a question, and Regina refuses to answer it.

 

She hates this uncertainty, the tremors that shake through their relationship, and she wants to  _ talk  _ but can’t find the right words. Losing Emma might break her, she knows, and she’s filled with dread at even the thought of screwing this up.

 

She raises her face to kiss Emma in an attempt to drive away her doubts, and Emma presses her lips to Regina’s gently. The kiss intensifies quickly, both of them still dazed with the immediacy of  _ here, now, them _ , and Regina is soon stretched across Emma’s torso on the couch, her hands exploring Emma’s body while Emma’s fingers clamp onto her hips. Their lips are still fused together and neither of them is awake enough for anything more, but this lazy kissing is a revelation in itself, the quiet comfort that comes from having all the time in the world.

 

That comfort might be an illusion, of course. There are very few good things in Regina’s life that she has managed to hold onto, and even fewer that she’s cared this much about. The future flits behind her eyes sometimes when she’s kissing Emma, the two of them in Town Hall, in a house together, with a little boy and girl winding around their legs– and she blinks it away when she remembers, terrified of wishing too hard and watching it crash down around her.

 

She kisses Emma instead, lips and tongues as languid as slowly lapping waters on a beach, and when they finally part, Regina resting halfway on top of Emma, it feels like healing. Emma lifts her head to rest it against the arm of the couch and exhales in a whoosh. “ _ Girls _ ,” she says fervently.

 

Regina blinks up at her, amused, and Emma amends, “Okay, one particular girl.” She’s grinning, a dumbstruck look on her face. Regina kisses her jaw, very comfortable in the halo of Emma’s contentedness. “I can’t believe I missed out on this for so many years because I was  _ dumb _ .”

 

“I’m glad you got with the program,” Regina says dryly, pressing another kiss to the side of Emma’s neck. 

 

“Like…” Emma frowns. “There was this girl I had a complicated relationship with when I was a kid–” 

 

Regina snorts. “Once we come out, we just call those childhood crushes.” Emma pokes her side, then curls an arm around her waist. “What happened?” 

 

Emma shakes her head. “It was just…complicated. I was a runaway and I thought she was, too– we had an instant kind of bond, you know?” She looks contemplative. “We were going to run away together.” She tells the story of a day spent like a dream, breaking into a house and buying food with a stolen credit card. Having a  _ friend _ , and Regina knows just as well as Emma does how rare those can sometimes be. “And in the end, Lily had lied to me about it all. She’d been adopted. I would have  _ killed  _ to be adopted,” Emma says bitterly, and Regina strokes her side, kisses her cheek in comfort. “And it was right before Ingrid, too, when I had pretty much given up on ever having a family.” 

 

_ Ingrid _ . The foster mother who had nearly adopted Emma. “Tell me,” Regina murmurs, remembering suddenly what she has in her bag on the coffee table. Not yet. Now isn’t the time. “You loved Ingrid.” 

 

“She loved me,” Emma counters, and she sighs, the grief and the love so intertwined in her exhale. “I hadn’t…I don’t think a lot of my foster parents really cared much about me. There were some who tried, but I…I wasn’t easy to love. I was angry for a lot of years– mostly at my foster parents for not being my birth parents.” Regina tightens her hold on Emma, listening quietly. “And I wanted them to be angry at me, too, I think. I ran away a lot. I was rehomed a lot. But after Lily…I was just kind of defeated. I wanted to…to disappear, kind of. To be no one at all.” 

 

“And then you met Ingrid,” Regina says, and she wishes– she wishes she could have been there, somehow, to be someone in Emma’s life for her to believe in.

 

Emma bobs her head. “She noticed me when I was trying to fade away. I was going to steal some cash and run; and instead, she talked to me and just  _ cared _ , I guess. I started going to school more often because I wanted to make her proud. We did this amusement park once–  _ me _ , going to an amusement park–” And she sounds awed at the idea, still that little girl somewhere deep down. “I’d never really…before that, I never thought that anyone could love me.” 

 

“Emma,” Regina whispers, her heart aching for a tiny Emma, all wild blonde hair and defiant eyes.

 

Emma tips her head back to stare at the ceiling. “She was going to adopt me. She told me at that amusement park and I think…sometimes I think about my life in two halves– before that day and after. Everything changed for me then. Knowing that she really…” She closes her eyes for a moment. “It was the first time I really felt like I was  _ worth  _ something.”

 

“You’re worth  _ everything _ ,” Regina whispers, and Emma pulls her up to kiss her ardently, until they’re interrupted by a loud beep from the coffee table. 

 

Regina pulls away reluctantly, getting up to glance at the phone. “It’s nothing,” she says, but Emma is sitting up now, pensive, and Regina sits next to her, watching as she stares into nothingness.

 

“It was a snow day. The day she…” Emma swallows. “I stayed home, and we made this ridiculous snowman. Ingrid loved snow. We put together these bottles with food coloring and we colored our snowman– we made snow angels, we really…” There’s a distant look on her face. “It was probably the best day of my life, back then. I couldn’t believe that someone could really…”

 

Regina knows what’s coming, and she reaches out, but Emma shrinks into herself as she speaks, her arms tightening around herself. “She didn’t want me to find her, I think. She had sent me to the store with a ridiculous shopping list. I remember being kind of irritated about it, because it meant going into half the stores in town to get what I needed. Then she must have called 911, because when I got back, the cops were already there and the ambulance was gone. I was given enough time to pack and then sent back to the group home. It was…” She laughs awkwardly. “It was a day. I don’t know. I’ve really killed the mood, haven’t I?”

 

There are no right words to say, except, “I’m sorry,” a whisper from Regina’s lips. 

 

Emma shakes her head. “It’s fine. It was…it was a long time ago. I can’t really blame Ingrid. I was a kid and I was…I was also done with life before I met her.” She laughs weakly. “I try to remember the better parts of knowing her. All the ways I changed because of it. I might not have had birth parents, but I had a mother in my life, and I think that…that mattered to me more than anything else, you know?” She shrugs. “I like focusing on that instead. It’s why your…” She stops, biting her lip.

 

Regina says, “Wait.” She clambers off the couch again, digging into her bag until she finds the box she’d wanted before. “Neal gave it back to me,” she says, and Emma’s eyes follow the box, her eyes rich with emotion. “He thought I should…it should come from me this time.” 

 

She opens the box, removing the snowflake necklace delicately from where it sits, and Emma stands up to meet her. Regina winds it around her neck, leaning forward to clasp it, and Emma pulls her close and kisses her for a long, long time.

 

Regina is breathless at the end of it, Emma’s arms tight around her and the necklace searing a fractal shape into her chest where they’d been locked together, and she brushes a final kiss to Emma’s cheek and murmurs, “We should sleep. It’s getting late.” 

 

Emma exhales, eyes warm enough that Regina can feel it, and says, “Let’s go to bed.” 

 

“I’m just going to tidy up the kitchen,” Regina promises. “I’ll be there in five.” Emma heads for the bedroom, and Regina bends to get her phone.

 

“Regina?” Emma has paused by the bedroom door, and she speaks hesitantly, the words and her smile uncertain. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me to look at that apartment?” 

 

It’s an overture that shatters their idyll, that Regina still can’t take, and Regina forces herself to smile apologetically this time. “Ruby knows housing in this neighborhood better than I ever will,” she manages, her voice strained. She can’t trust herself to go with Emma without alienating Emma, without being caustic and bitter and all the things that will drive Emma away. 

 

Emma nods, her eyes injured again. “Okay,” she says, and she ducks into the bedroom.

 

Regina swallows, hating herself for it, and she lifts up her phone to examine the text message that she’d gotten and dismissed in front of Emma. She wants to mull over its contents with Emma, but now isn’t the time. Not when they’ve made this apartment an oasis in the desert, the one place where they can quietly be without the interruptions from their frenetic lives outside it. 

 

It’s a message from Mother, layers beneath layers beneath layers, and Regina stares at it again.  **_Do you really think that your friend Marian should be spending so much time at your campaign office?_ ** it reads, and it could be snide or it could be a jab at Marian, single mother, to provoke Regina, but Mother doesn’t operate like that. Mother doesn’t need Regina to respond to get in whatever withering observation she has.

 

Mother knows something, and now Regina is going to know it, too.

 

* * *

 

“It’s not a big deal,” Marian protests, rolling her eyes. “Your mother is just being your mother. She’s playing games with you.” 

 

“Mother plays to win,” Regina says, unconvinced. They’re at the office, the others flitting around and pretending to be absorbed in their work while they eavesdrop. The only ones who are actually working are Emma and Neal, making phone calls for their rally guests. The rally is beginning to come together, a final big event before a slew of one-on-one community outreach days leading up to the election.

 

The election is  _ so close _ , and they’re finally at the point where Regina can begin to imagine life after it. Not in any sort of tangible way– that remains a dim haze of  _ future _ that won’t solidify until those results are in– but in more immediate desires, like  _ sleep in _ and  _ read a book _ and  _ go on real dates with Emma _ . She thinks of it wistfully, also fully aware that she has no idea how to stop moving.

 

But first– before rallies and elections and dates– Mother must be attended to. “Mother doesn’t invent imaginary problems. She creates them and then forces us to deal with them.” 

 

Marian sighs. “It’s nothing.” She sits heavily on one of the chairs at her cubicle. “Cora must have directed Robin’s lawyer to change tacks. He’s trying to get principal custody.” 

 

“And he’s been…using your time here as a reason why,” Regina echoes. “It’s not even a nine-to-five for you. You have financial stability. And Roland  _ loves  _ being here.” She presses a hand to her forehead, chagrined and outraged. Roland might love being here, and Marian has a loose schedule when she is here, but she does have another job and Robin works much fewer hours. Even when they’d been happily married, it had been Robin who had picked Roland up from preschool and who had been off with him while Marian had worked at the campaign. “You have to stop,” she says decisively. “Go home. We’ll consult with you, but I don’t want you–” 

 

“No,” Marian says. The others have forgone all pretenses at being busy. Even Emma has set down her phone and is watching them, brow furrowed. 

 

Regina shakes her head. “No?” she demands. “Your son’s–” 

 

There’s a hardness to Marian’s features, a stubborn set to her jaw as she looks up at Regina. “I don’t like being manipulated.” She holds Regina’s gaze, ignoring their audience. “I’m going to keep coming here. And I’m going to hold onto Roland, too. I will not let your mother turn me into collateral damage.” She leans forward, ending the conversation, and Regina watches her with marked dismay.

 

_ Collateral damage. _ That’s what Marian is to Mother, another weapon with which to strike out at Regina. And Marian might lose her  _ son  _ over it, might suffer more for Regina’s election than Regina herself, and Regina can never forgive herself for putting Marian in this position. 

 

First Neal and Emma. Then Jacinda and Sabine. And now Marian. Mother is going after the campaign from the inside now, struggling to strain them at the seams until they shatter. Regina has built this campaign to strike back against the harm Mother has inflicted on Storybrooke. And now, Mother is directing it first at the people who had joined Regina in this.

 

She has to fight back. She has to protect them. First, the bakery and all the shops on Main Street. Mother won’t get away with this. 

 

Emma is on the phone again, still watching her, and Neal is on the chair next to her with his feet up as he scrolls through his Instagram feed. “I think we got someone,” he says, grinning at Regina when she walks to them. “She goes as Ariel. Big Internet personality these days and a fairly successful singer. She does a lot of those viral mini videos? And she played one of the mermaids in Jones’s Broadway run. She and I have talked on Instagram a few times over the years, and she seems interested in participating in the rally. Celeb to take down a celeb,” he says, showing Regina a picture of a pretty, redheaded woman. “We’ve got this.” 

 

“Great.” Regina blinks away from Neal and to Emma, who gives her a warm smile as she talks with an organizer. “I…this Main Street rent hike we talked about. Is your father at all involved?” 

 

Neal shakes his head. “He’s kind of blown me off the last few times I’ve brought it up.” He grimaces. “I invited him over after dinner tonight. Get him where he can’t run off.” He laughs, and Regina eyes him, a hair of trepidation fluttering at her heart.

 

Neal alternates between being terrified of his father and being furious with him. Gold has never been the paternal type, and he’d gotten worse after Milah Gold had vanished. He’d been overbearing, dangerously protective, and had alienated everyone whom Neal had cared about except for Regina herself. Neal still keeps his distance, though Gold makes the occasional halfhearted overture. As far as Regina knows, Gold has never set foot into Neal’s apartment before. 

 

She stares at him. He shrugs. “I’m doing my part, okay? Our parents are…pretty terrible all around. Except your dad, I guess. If you’re going to declare war on your mom, the least I can do is have my dad for dinner.” He pats her arm. “Go. Worry about something else. I’ve got this.” 

 

Regina nods uncertainly, eyes flickering to Emma before she heads back to her office. Once she’s inside, she flips through the pages and pages of bylaws that she’d printed out, finding her place and reading again. 

 

She’ll be damned if she relies on  _ Gold _ to save the day. He’s unpredictable and self-serving and he cares just as much about his subtle network of power as he does his son. Bylaws– reliable, unchanging rules on a page– those will fix this. Mother deals in power, in twisting these laws to serve her purposes. She’d taught Regina the same techniques, the same careful scraping through rules to manipulate and change little details to alter lives. 

 

Regina will use every weapon that Mother had gifted her against her.

 

She scans every page until her eyes are blurry, until she’s exhausted and there have been a few promising leads, until all she wants is to go home with Emma and fall asleep together. But she can’t let herself do that. Her town has suffered enough already on her family’s behalf. She won’t rest until she has something.

 

She can’t.

 

* * *

 

Regina is asleep at her desk when Emma returns from the apartment visit, head resting on a pile of what looks like a printout of Storybrooke’s town charter, and Emma sighs and goes into the office, lifting Regina into her arms with some effort. Regina immediately snuggles into her, and Emma brushes a kiss to her forehead and kicks the door open again, staring out the big windows to Main Street in the main room of the office.

 

No one is out who might see them together and think anything of it, and Emma gets a good grip on Regina and carries her out to the Bug, buckling her in and then going back to lock up the office. Everyone else is long gone, the workday over and the streets dark, and only one shopkeeper had seen her carrying Regina out. “Long day trying to save your ass,” Emma says to him as she locks up.

 

He blinks at her and then walks on, throwing back glances at the open door of the passenger seat. Regina is awake when Emma finally returns to the car, grabbing a bag that Ruby had given her from Granny’s. 

 

“Dinner,” Emma says, holding up the bag. “You’re going to eat, then sleep.” 

 

“I have to…Main Street…” Regina says drowsily, and Emma leans over to press her lips against Regina’s cheek for a moment. “I’m not done.” 

 

“I know, babe.” Regina opens one eye enough to give her a side eye at the name, and Emma shrugs, unapologetic. “I’m trying something out. Go with it. And you can work on this again in the morning.”   

 

Regina sighs, leaning back against the seat as Emma drives toward her apartment. “I thought you were…weren’t you going to look at that apartment with Ruby tonight?” There’s a note of uncertain hope in her voice, and it stings. “Did it fall through?” 

 

“Nah. I went when work ended and saw your car still parked here on the way back.” Regina opens her eyes to stare at her, her eyes unreadable, and Emma swallows. “It’s, um…it’s fine. Looks pretty nice, compared to some of the apartments I’ve lived in in the past. And the landlord is giving me a good deal because I used David Nolan as a reference. Says he thinks I won’t wreck it.” She laughs, nervousness making her babble as Regina stares silently. 

 

Emma can’t read Regina when it comes to this apartment. It puts her in a bad mood, but Emma can’t figure out if it’s impatience or unhappiness– if Regina wants her out already or if she doesn’t want Emma to go at all. 

 

Now  _ that  _ is wishful thinking. Regina has never expressed, even once in all the times that Emma has brought it up, a desire for Emma to stay in the apartment. There had been the invitation early on for Emma to stay, and Regina is unflinching in how welcoming she continues to be, but that’s just  _ Regina _ , too giving of herself to ever consider her own feelings first. 

 

Emma has to put Regina first now, to prove that she can do the same, even if leaving the apartment fills Emma with dread. Regina had never asked for a roommate, let alone Emma living off of her rich girlfriend instead of seeking out something stable. Regina deserves stability, even if Emma wishes dearly that she could just  _ stay _ . 

 

Regina shrugs now, turning away from her. “Just don’t invite the Lost Boys over,” she says lightly, but it feels dismissive, uninterested. There are no questions about the apartment, about how it looks or where it’s located. Which–  _ fine _ , Regina doesn’t  _ have  _ to be interested in everything that Emma does, but Emma wishes it weren’t immediately followed by that cool, distant tone. “When are you moving out?” 

 

“I already put down the money for the lease,” Emma admits. “I’ve been saving up for a while and I didn’t really have many expenses until now. So I can go whenever I’m all packed up, I guess. It’s furnished and there are…pots and pans and all of that.” She bites her lip. “I’ll be out of your hair soon.” 

 

Regina’s shoulders are stiff, her arms folded around herself, and she turns back with a politician’s smile on her face. “Not too soon, I hope,” she says in what’s almost a purr, and it’s the only thing she’s said in the car so far that sounds real.

 

Emma swallows, quashing her own silly hopes, and grins. “I have to make sure you get to sleep on time tonight,” she says reprovingly. “Maybe tomorrow.” 

 

“Maybe,” Regina says, and she smiles at Emma, her eyes glowing. “But tonight…” 

 

She’s asleep again by the time they make it upstairs, dozing on the couch, and Emma sighs and gives up on getting Regina to eat tonight. She lays a blanket over her and writes a note on a Post-it, attaching it to the door to the bedroom before she slips out again.

 

Her night is far from over. 

 

She’d overheard Neal on the phone, inviting Gold over for a late dinner. By now, it should be long underway, but Emma had been counting on that. She walks to Neal’s apartment, reluctant for her bright yellow car to be seen on his block, and she sighs in recognition when she spots Tamara’s car parked in front, too.

 

This is exactly what she’d thought it would be. If Main Street comes up, it won’t be the principal topic of the night.

 

Neal’s apartment is on the second floor of an already elevated apartment, and Emma squints up at it, contemplating how she might be able to make it closer to it. There’s a porch outside that they’d never touched, a rickety old thing that looks one visitor away from falling in, and the door to it is securely locked. 

 

The window, though, is cracked open as much as it can be with an air conditioner jammed into the top, and Emma eyes the tree next to the porch speculatively. It’s a little scrawny, the smallest branches the only ones that come close to the porch, and it’s doubtful it’ll hold her weight.

 

A minute later, she’s shimmying up the tree. She’s done  _ worse _ , and for far less urgent reasons. If Neal and Tamara are betraying them, then someone has to find out, and Emma’s going to need proof before she brings that to the team. At times, she still has to remind herself that she’s one of this group, that she isn’t an outsider anymore. She still  _ feels  _ like an outsider sometimes, and Neal is as close to the center of the group as it gets. If he’s screwing them over, it’ll be Emma’s word against his.

 

After some dangerous creaking, she manages to snag the edge of the porch, a rusty piece of its gate coming off in her hand, and she grabs onto its edge and hoists herself up. Carefully, she creeps over to the open window, the porch floor straining beneath her.

 

“I don’t get involved in Cora’s schemes,” Gold is saying definitively from the living room. “If she wants to raise rent, she can raise the rent. Your friends haven’t had a rent increase in years. They should be grateful it’s only been this once.” 

 

“Papa,” Neal says, exasperated. “They’re  _ your  _ buildings.” 

 

Gold waves a hand. He’s sitting on the big chair, his cane resting on his knees, and he looks fed up with the conversation. Neal and Tamara are on the couch, Neal leaning forward as he speaks to Gold, and Tamara–

 

Tamara’s eyes are on Emma, and Emma gasps out a breath and jumps back. It’s too sudden for the porch, too heavy, and the metal slats that make up its floor creak threateningly. Emma creeps back, digging her fingers into the more sturdy window, and Tamara sighs and looks away from her. “This isn’t about the election,” she says. 

 

Gold laughs coldly. “Of course it’s about the election,” he says, tapping his fingers against his cane. “This is about Regina Mills showing her  _ true devotion  _ to the common people of Storybrooke.” His eyes are cool, sharp and too knowing, and Emma feels a chill run down her spine. “Forget those fools. I gave you my offer.” 

 

Tamara glances back at the window, and there’s definitely  _ guilt  _ on her face as she catches Emma’s gaze again, guilt that makes Emma’s heart sink. Neal says, “It’s…it’s a good offer. I have some concerns–” 

 

“It will secure your victory,” Gold points out. “Something that your friend seems to care very little about–” 

 

Tamara jumps and then sits, turning deliberately away from the window. “We’re doing well without it,” she says. “The development plan from the debate–” 

 

“That was hardly enough,” Gold says, and Emma inches closer, her brow furrowing. What does it  _ mean _ ? Whose side are they on? “I am giving you everything you want. And you have the temerity to  _ consider  _ it?” He’s looking at Tamara now, not Neal, his gaze almost predatory. “Do you really want to cross me, dearie?” 

 

Neal says hastily, “Of course she doesn’t. We appreciate what you’ve been doing with us. We just…we need to sort out some of the details. We can’t risk our team finding out any of this.” Tamara doesn’t look at Emma this time, and Emma feels a bolt of rage. They  _ are  _ betraying the team, then, and Regina with it. They’re–

 

She jerks forward and her foot goes straight through the rusty floor of the porch. It punctures a hole that shatters the rest of the floor, the porch giving way beneath her, and with a clatter, it all begins to fall.

 

She moves instinctively, her hands clamping onto the inside of the window. They begin to slide, her body weighing her down– Regina’s going to be  _ so _ pissed if she dies right now, before the election– and then brown fingers land on hers, yanking her up and holding her in place. “It was just your porch,” Tamara says, turning back to the living room. “The wind must have knocked a tree branch into it.” One hand clenches Emma’s, holding on tightly, and she says, “And on that note, I’m really done with this debate. We’ll be in touch, Mr. Gold.” 

 

Emma can’t see Gold anymore, is hanging onto Tamara’s hand and the windowsill for dear life, but she hears the condescending mockery in his voice, the cool certainty that he’s in control and Tamara is irrelevant. “See that you are,” he says, and Tamara turns back to the window, gazing out as though her other hand hasn’t gripped Emma’s firmly and she isn’t holding up with every muscle she still has. 

 

Neal ushers his father out, helping him down the stairs, and as their voices begin to fade, Tamara whispers, breathing heavily, “I can’t– I don’t know if I can pull you all the way up.” 

 

“Just get my arms in,” Emma says desperately, suddenly grateful for the pull up bar that Mulan had put in the supply closet. “I can do the rest–  _ eugh _ –” and she’s pulling herself into the apartment, landing in a heap on the floor. 

 

The voices return, nearing suddenly, and Tamara yanks Emma up. “Into the closet,” she hisses, and Emma squeezes into it, hunkering down on the floor beside a jacket she’d forgotten she’d left with Neal and a dozen broken umbrellas. She leaves the door a crack open, leaning back against the wall, and she waits as Tamara calls out, “You forgot your jacket,” and hurries down the stairs to meet them, her face smooth as though nothing has happened.

 

Before long, Tamara and Neal are ascending the stairs again. “I don’t get it,” Neal is complaining. “He’ll do anything else, but  _ this  _ he draws the line at?”

 

“This isn’t helping you,” Tamara points out reasonably. “And this is a lot more direct than anything else he’s done. We have to keep in mind that, as far as he’s concerned, we’re working for him.” In the closet, Emma tenses with confirmation of her worst fears. “His agenda has nothing to do with the bakery. It’s all about Jones.” 

 

Neal sounds frustrated. “Regina wants–” 

 

“Regina can’t always get what she wants,” Tamara says. Her voice is clinical, calculating in a way that has always intimidated Emma. The campaign is so often based in everyone’s emotional connections to this town, but Tamara has always been disengaged from it in a way that unnerves Emma now. “She’s going to have to learn that here. Our other projects are much more important than a dozen or so voters on Main Street who are going to vote for her anyway.” 

 

“Yeah,” Neal says dully. “I guess so.” 

 

“The campaign is vulnerable right now,” Tamara points out, and Emma can feel a chill run down her spine at that fact, stated so plainly. “Marian has Roland to worry about. Sabine and Jacinda have the bakery. Mulan is in a highly competitive program. And Emma…”

 

“What about Emma?” Neal demands, his tone already defensive, and Emma is quietly glad that he’s here.

 

Tamara lets out a bark of laughter from somewhere nearby. “Emma is in the closet,” she says, and she pulls the door open, quirking a grin at her.

 

Neal gapes. Emma blinks in the light. “Hi,” she tries sheepishly.

 

Neal stares down at her. “What the  _ hell  _ are you doing here?” he demands, and he looks angry and alarmed at once. “Were you– were you listening in to the dinner? What are you–” 

 

“I pulled her in through the window after she wrecked that fire escape porch outside,” Tamara offers, laying a hand on Neal’s shoulder. She looks amused and wary at once, and Emma can feel her hackles rising. “Subtle, Emma isn’t.” 

 

“I didn’t know I  _ had  _ to be subtle,” Emma says stiffly. “I didn’t think there was any reason to be. But here you are, keeping things from the campaign.” 

 

Neal scoffs guiltily. “Okay, look, Emma, it isn’t what you think–” 

 

“Don’t tell her anything,” Tamara says, eyes narrowed and her amusement forgotten, and Emma can feel her fury ready to explode. “You know she can’t know this.” 

 

“Can’t know what?” Emma demands. “Can’t know that you’ve been working with Gold? That you’ve been doing all kinds of…of underhanded things? Why were you at Cora’s donor party?” 

 

Neal shakes his head, exchanging a glance with Tamara. “I can’t tell you that.” 

 

Emma glares at them both. “Fine. Who were you always talking to late at night when I– when we were together?” 

 

Neal’s teeth are clenched. “I’m not going to tell you any of this.” 

 

“Because Tamara said not to?” 

 

“Because she’s  _ right _ .” 

 

“Because you’re a double agent!” Emma says, jabbing a finger at him. “You claim to be on Regina’s side, but you’ve been working with Gold-Mills Consulting. You’ve been working with  _ Jones _ .” 

 

Neal stares at her, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “I have not been working with Jones,” he says abruptly.

 

Emma scoffs. “Right. You don’t even know him,” she says mockingly. “I  _ know _ , Neal. I know about the summer he worked at your house. I know you idolized him.” Neal and Tamara are a matched set of grim faces, refusing to give her anything, and Emma pushes harder. “And yet, you never said a  _ thing _ . Why would you keep that secret? Why were you hiding it from us? I know everything–” 

 

“ _ You don’t know a damn thing _ !” The words tear themselves from Neal’s mouth, raw and furious and so unexpected that Emma flinches back from him. “You don’t–” 

 

Tamara lays a hand back onto Neal’s shoulder, and he calms at once, deflating. His head drops, his eyes on the floor, and Tamara says quietly, “I think we’re past hiding this from Emma.” She lifts her face to catch Emma’s gaze, her eyes like steel, and she says, “Regina can never know.”

 

Emma clenches her fists, refusing to make that promise, and Tamara shakes her head. “You’ll understand soon,” she says. “Sit.” 

 

Emma glares at her. “You sit,” she shoots back, and Tamara sighs, giving Neal a shove. 

 

“Fine. We’ll sit.” 

 

Emma hovers in front of the couch, folding her arms together before she can impulsively break something, and Neal and Tamara sit down. They look a bit like children caught out, being reprimanded by a parent, and Emma wants to laugh in delirious disbelief at whatever the  _ fuck  _ is going on with them right now.

 

Neal speaks first. “Yeah,” he says. “I knew Jones when I was a kid. Then he ran off with my mother.” 

 

Emma blinks. Blinks again. Stares at him. “ _ What _ ?” Of all the suspicions she’d had about the Jones-Gold connection, it hadn’t been  _ that _ . “Your mom…”

 

“I don’t know if they were…if they were sleeping together too, or if it was just business. I’ve never found out,” Neal says bitterly. “My mom was…I mean, I guess you didn’t know. My mom was a big Broadway donor, back in the day. She got him an audition, and he got her away from my dad and me.” He stares at the coffee table. “So  _ no _ , Emma, I’m not secretly working with  _ him _ .”

 

Emma sits, abruptly, at the edge of the recliner. “I didn’t know.” 

 

“I don’t talk about it,” Neal says dully. “I don’t want to even  _ think  _ about Jones, most of the time. I just want him gone.”

 

“So why all the secrecy? Why are you–?” The answer dawns on her in moments, and she feels suddenly sick. Tamara and Neal face her, both looking very tired. “Of course. Gold hates Jones, too, doesn’t he?” 

 

“It’s a game they play,” Tamara says, leaning back on the couch. “All the power plays. Cora supports Jones and pretends she has no idea why Gold would possibly care. Gold plays nice and acts as though Jones isn’t the man he loathes most in the universe. We just got in there at the right place and the right time.” 

 

And now, their allegiances finally established and firm, it begins to dawn on Emma exactly how fucked they all are. “And how long have you working with Gold for the campaign?” she says slowly.

 

Neal meets her gaze evenly. “The day after the primary. When Cora made her announcement.” He looks older now, more worn down with every admission, and as though he’s surrendered. “Regina was crushed. She was sure we had no chance, and I just…” He rests his hands on his knees. “It felt kind of like Cora had everything and we had nothing. I wanted to find some kind of leverage. So we made a deal with my father. He wanted Jones gone as much as we did.” 

 

“He found you Shirin Jasmine,” Emma says blankly, putting it together at last. “Then he told you about Cora’s donor party and got you in there, too.”

 

“We didn’t do much good that night,” Tamara says. “We hadn’t expected you and Regina to be there. And Gold couldn’t get rid of the pictures of Regina with Robin at our fundraiser.” 

 

Emma watches them, thinks back to days spent, months ago, googling Neal’s past girlfriends and the search engine manipulations. “He did the other ones, though, didn’t he? That night at the club.” 

 

“Yeah.” Neal slumps back against the couch. “And he was the one who got us the permits for the auction when that ass at Town Hall tried to stop us.” He snorts. “He gave us a ridiculously hard time. I’ll never understand why he gave you yours without a fuss. My father got it done, though. After another deal.” 

 

“On Regina’s behalf,” Emma says, and she can feel it like a new dread, rising within her as she begins to piece together exactly what they’ve been doing. “You’ve been making deals with  _ Gold _ – with the very institution that Regina wants to take down– for the campaign? Who is Gold expecting to repay him? Because I can’t  _ imagine  _ it’s going to be his  _ son _ .” 

 

Tamara says tightly, “We’ll take care of it. We’ve been taking care of it until now, haven’t we?” 

 

“I don’t know! I don’t know if any of this is  _ taking care of it _ !” Emma says, standing again. “You’ve done all of this– Regina is going to owe  _ Gold  _ favors. This isn’t how it’s done. This isn’t how we  _ do  _ things!” For the first time since Tamara had brought it up, Emma is beginning to grasp exactly how vital it is that Regina never finds out about any of this. “We don’t use Gold-Mills Consulting. We  _ fight  _ them.” 

 

“You fight them,” Tamara corrects her, and she leans forward, her eyes hard and focused. “I’m going to say some things, and you aren’t going to like them, Emma. Please sit.” Emma sits, her whole body thrumming with energy. This is too much, all at once, and she’s lost. She has no idea how they’re supposed to fix  _ this _ , which feels so much bigger than everything that they’ve done until now. Neal and Tamara have bitten off more than they can chew, and they know it, judging from the angry guilt on both their faces.

 

Still, Tamara persists. “There are…in every campaign, there are going to be good and idealistic people who want to make a difference and who fight because of that. And people like Gold and Cora crush them, over and over again. Regina is tough. Regina is also doing everything in her power to not be her mother.” 

 

“So you decided that you’d take a crack at it?” 

 

Tamara ignores her. “And in every successful campaign, there are going to be some people who are willing to do what it takes to win,” she says, and she sounds pleading, uncertain. There is something more to this, to a few connections pulled that might have added up to nothing. They’re still keeping something from her. “It’s not pretty. It’s not neat or easy or idealistic. You can’t wrap up what we’re doing in a neat bow and call it part of the Mills campaign package. But it needs to be done.” 

 

“We’re pragmatists, Emma,” Neal murmurs. “Regina can’t ever do any of this. Regina can’t even know about any of this. But she can fight in her own way, and we can match Cora every step of the way. We’re doing what needs to be done.” 

 

Emma shakes her head. “This isn’t all,” she says. “A few phone calls and you’ve been hiding  _ that  _ from us? What was he offering you now? What are you still keeping from me?” Neal and Tamara exchange a glance, and Emma’s eyes narrow. “ _ Tell  _ me.” 

 

Tamara folds her hands onto her lap. “It was only supposed to be a few phone calls,” she admits. “But we didn’t– we didn’t anticipate everything that followed the primary. Not Robin or Regina as the candidate. We weren’t…”

 

“Wanting Regina’s campaign to win and wanting Regina to win were two very different things for me,” Neal admits. “So we pushed. Maybe too far. And my father kept upping the ante.”

 

“Testing us. Seeing what he could hold over our heads,” Tamara murmurs. “Jones never met with any developers. Gold has us blackmailing Belfrey. She gave him the info so we could finger him for the luxury apartments scam.” 

 

Emma stares at them, feeling sick. “You’ve been  _ blackmailing  _ Belfrey? What else–” 

 

“He’s putting something else into motion,” Tamara says, and she looks miserable. “He told us tonight. He’s going to implicate Jones in some massive scheme that would increase taxes and divert them to the mayor’s office. We just need to plant the evidence.”

 

Emma stands up. The nausea roils in her stomach, and she twists around, heading for the door. Tamara sits back heavily, and Neal gets up, following her as she storms down the steps. “Emma,  _ wait _ –” 

 

“This is what you always do,” she says, wheeling around with a new wave of fury. “This is your  _ thing _ . You talk a big game about growing up– about being a better person and taking responsibility and– and yet again, you run to someone else to solve your problems. And where the  _ fuck _ are we now? You’re breaking the law for our campaign?” If any of this ever gets out, they’re  _ screwed _ . “What have you  _ done _ ?” 

 

“I know,” Neal says, and he looks helpless. “I  _ know, _ okay?” 

 

Emma isn’t appeased. “Knowing isn’t enough!” she bites out. He’d done the same thing every time they’d argued– every time he and Regina had fought. Neal apologizes and takes responsibility for whatever had gone wrong and then promptly goes on and does something  _ else  _ idiotic. “You can’t just say you know and then expect it to be okay! It isn’t okay!” 

 

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Neal demands, and he sounds just as frustrated as Emma. “This is why– this is why I did everything I could to get the hell away from my dad, okay? He sits there and he…whenever it seems like his hold on me might be loosening, he’ll threaten Regina– he’ll threaten Tamara–” And now he looks lost, anguished at it. “I get it. We fucked up. But I don’t know what else I can  _ do  _ about it. I don’t know how I’m supposed to make up for…for all those times. I was finally doing something  _ helpful _ –” 

 

“Helpful isn’t this,” Emma says tightly. Tamara has stepped out to the top of the staircase, and she hovers, her eyes stubborn and miserable. “I get that you thought you were doing what had to be done. But we don’t fight like this. We don’t give even more power to the people who destroyed Storybrooke. This isn’t  _ right _ .” 

 

Tamara looks down. Neal won’t meet her eyes. Emma stands at the bottom of the stairs, weary with this knowledge, and she stares up at them. “You have to stop this,” she says. “You have to let Regina fight the way that she chose to. She can win.” She believes that with every fiber of her being, knows that Regina doesn’t need someone else’s illegal interference to become mayor. “And you’re both going to turn out like Aurora if you aren’t careful. You’re going to turn Regina into  _ Aurora _ . You need to stop this.” 

 

Neal doesn’t respond. Tamara says, “Don’t tell her,” and Emma shifts to watch her. Tamara’s eyes are sharp, grief-stricken but sure of this one thing. “It’ll consume her if she knows. It’ll color everything she does in the campaign. You can’t tell her any of this.” 

 

Emma shakes her head, walking to the door, the weight of their revelations settled on her shoulders. “I know,” she whispers, and she walks from the room and down the stairs, craving only to curl into bed with Regina. 

 

Regina is still on the couch when she gets back in, the Post-it fallen to the floor in front of the bedroom door. Emma snatches it up. She tears it into little pieces, then drops them into the toilet and flushes them away.

 

* * *

 

The Mills house is quiet this early on a weekday morning, and Regina automatically straightens her dress, leaves her hands at her abdomen and then remembers herself, bites her lip and reapplies her lipstick like war paint in her car mirror. Satisfied at last, she rises, emerging from the car and stalking up the walk to the front door.

 

She doesn’t ring the doorbell. Instead, she uses her key and slips inside as though she belongs there, as though belonging in her mother’s house isn’t something she’d lost years ago.

 

No one is in the foyer to greet her. A maid is tidying the sitting room, but she doesn’t notice Regina walk past, and Gold is already gone for the day. Mother is sitting in the dining room, her eyes on the newspaper in front of her as she sips at her coffee, and Regina sits opposite her and takes a second newspaper from the pile and leafs through it. 

 

“There’s an excellent op-ed on page eleven,” Mother says, her eyes still on her paper. “Read through it, dear. See what you pick up.” 

 

It’s an old game Mother used to play, thrusting the news in front of Regina and evaluating how well she grasps the layers beneath each article. Regina had always, inevitably, come up short, even as she’d aced her Government and Language Arts classes for it. 

 

Regina doesn’t play Mother’s games anymore. “Leave Marian out of this,” she says instead.

 

When she looks up, Mother is watching her over her newspaper, eyes amused. “Marian chooses not to leave herself out of it,” she says. “There are always consequences. Or did you think I would tolerate this farce for much longer?”

 

Regina sets the newspaper down. “The number you’re looking for is two,” she says.

 

The lightest of frowns across Mother’s brow. “Two?” she repeats. 

 

Regina holds up two fingers. “Number of nonprofits who lease office space on Main Street,” she says. “The holiday food drive, and the Literacy For America group hosts a weekly book reading at Sabine’s bakery.” Mother doesn’t move. “Interesting thing about nonprofits,” Regina says, tearing off the edge of the newspaper page to twist it around her fingers. “There’s a ninety-day grace period to contest before a rent hike. And when a rent hike is a communal one, then all buildings included are included as well in the ninety-day grace period.” 

 

Mother scoffs. “And you think ninety days is going to slow the inevitable?” 

 

Regina schools her expression to give away nothing. “After ninety days,” she says, “The non-profit– and I remind you that there are two located in one quaint strip of Main Street– will have the opportunity to request arbitration from the mayor of Storybrooke. And that will be me.” 

 

She doesn’t gloat. Mother finds gloating distasteful, the action of someone without any other options. Instead, she waits, absently twisting the paper between her fingers. 

 

Mother laughs. Regina watches her, eyes narrowed, and Mother shakes her head. “No, darling,” she says. “It will not be.” A long pause, Mother’s eyes cool on Regina’s fiery glare, and Mother says, “You can withstand whatever I send your way because I made you strong. But your friends are weak, and they make you weak.” 

 

“My friends are just as strong as I am,” Regina shoots back. “Marian–” 

 

“Your policy advisor, Mulan?” Cora says, and Regina stops speaking. “Her academic program has put her on probation. Neal’s friend Tamara has been…” She laughs again, amused at something she won’t explain. “To say little of that lesbian bakery. And Emma Swan…” Her voice trails off.

 

Regina shakes her head. She knows her mother’s tricks well enough by now. “You have nothing on Emma. You played your one card against her– Portland and what happened there– too early in the game,” she says smugly. “Emma doesn’t have any other deep, dark secrets.” And a shadow of doubt settles over her, just like that. “There’s nothing else you can take away from her,” Regina says, projecting confidence as best as she can.

 

Mother always puts her to shame with it, with only a cold smile and piercing eyes. “I think,” she says, and Regina’s blood runs cold. “You will find that that isn’t true.” 

 

Regina stands, and she can feel the fear already thrumming through her, the new terror on Emma’s behalf at her mother’s quiet surety. Mother doesn’t bluff. Mother will twist the very laws of nature to support her argument, but she doesn’t bluff. She never puts herself into a situation where she will need to. “I think,” Regina says coolly, quieting her panic for a retort, “That you can call my friends weak all you want. But you’ve been attacking them for weeks now, and not one of them has told me about what you’ve done. I found out about the bakery from Emma. You had to  _ text  _ me to make me aware of what you were doing to Marian.” Mother watches her, her eyes giving nothing away. “I think my friends are stronger than you think,” Regina says, and she turns and walks from the dining room and to the door, a tiny smile still pasted to her face.

 

Mother says absently, “I wouldn’t tell the shopkeepers that you’ve saved them just yet,” and the smile vanishes.

 

It darkens into a scowl once she’s outside, Mother’s last words reverberating through her head. Mother has something on Emma. Every woman in the campaign is under siege, and all because of her– and Emma is next.  _ Emma _ , who is vulnerable in ways that no one else is, who has no support or no fallback plan.  _ Emma _ , who is only beginning now to believe that she belongs her.

 

_ Emma _ , whom Regina loves.

 

Emma is sitting cross-legged on a chair at Regina’s desk when Regina ducks into the office, and greets her with a bright smile. “We got her! Ariel. She’s going to sing at the rally. She announced it on Twitter an hour ago and we’re already almost out of out-of-town tickets to it.” 

 

Regina smiles, and she doesn’t have to force it. It’s easy to smile around Emma, to be the person that she’s trying to be for all of Storybrooke when it’s Emma who’s looking at her. “That’s amazing,” she says, sliding down onto Emma’s lap to kiss her.

 

Emma cups her ass and then pinches it, and Regina laughs and kisses Emma again. “This rally is going to be  _ something _ ,” she says. “Less than a month until the election. If we can avoid any more drama, we might actually make it there.” 

 

“Yeah.” Emma is subdued, suddenly, lost in thought, and Regina regards her silently. There’s a shadow to her features, an uncertainty that makes no sense, and Regina’s heart beats a little faster as she remembers Mother’s words.

 

They’re consuming her like fire, beginning as a tiny spark and quickly devouring more and more of her until she fears there might be nothing left. Mother has something on Emma, something that might hurt her, and Regina fears nothing in the universe more than that. Mother might break Emma as easily as a china doll, and Emma knows nothing about it.

  
_ I think you’ll find that that isn’t true _ . “Stay with me,” Regina murmurs, and she slips her hands around Emma’s waist and kisses her again and again, her heart quickening with every movement against Emma, but it’s never enough to drown out the pounding in her head.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interest has waned a bit over the past few chapters, and I wanna specially thank all of you who continue to encourage me with your kind feedback!!! Y'all are truly the reason why authors keep writing and I owe this story to each of you. <3 And a special thank you to Maia, who took this chapter when my brain was mush and gave me a few pointed, horrifying suggestions that I have wholeheartedly embraced.
> 
> Buckle up, we're in the home stretch now!!

**OCTOBER 17**

_ 19 Days Until the General Election _

 

The diner is packed on the Friday morning before their rally, and Regina weaves through the crowd, struggling not to drop her coffees. Emma is waiting at one of the booths in the back, fighting with a crowd of strangers to keep it. “Look, I got here first,” she says, scowling at a duo of girls who sneer at her. “I sit here practically  _ every  _ day. Who even are you?”

 

One girl’s lip curls. “A local,” she says, an aside to the other. “I hope you’re supporting Regina Mills’s campaign.” 

 

“You know she’s singlehandedly leading a revolution to combat corruption in Maine,” the other says self-importantly. Regina squints at them. They’re wearing t-shirts with Ariel’s face on them, and little mermaid tails dangle from one girl’s ears. “Are you registered to vote in the mayoral election?”

 

“Uh,” Emma says, caught by surprise. “I haven’t registered yet, but I–” 

 

The girls loom around her. “You know, voting is your civic duty.” 

 

“Are you going to let a cog in the machine like Killian Jones win this one?” The girl looks Emma up and down disgustedly. “You  _ would _ ,” she says. “I’ll never understand women who vote over how hot they think the candidate is–” 

 

Emma says, “ _ Excuse  _ me?” and Regina decides that, as fun as this is to watch, it’s probably time to intercede. She slips in beside Emma, ducking under her to sit at the booth and set down the coffees.

 

“Here’s yours, Emma,” she says, tilting her head to eye the girls. “Ruby said the food is going to have to wait a bit.”

 

The girls eye her back. “Have  _ you  _ registered to vote for Regina Mills?” one demands of her, and Regina raises an eyebrow, no longer so amused. 

 

Emma grins, at once delighted. “She’s a big Jones fan,” she says somberly. “You know girls these days. All about the sexy guy.” She offers Regina a mischievous wink. “You guys must be Regina Mills mega-fans, huh?” 

 

The girls bob their heads. “ _ Yes, _ ” one says. “We’re  _ so  _ proud of Ariel for supporting her.” 

 

“I’ve been following her campaign since the beginning,” one says smugly. “I knew she had it in her.” 

 

“She’s an inspiration,” another stranger says enthusiastically.

 

“An icon, really.” 

 

“I drove five hours up here to support her.” 

 

“Really?” Someone else looks at their gaggle of twenty-somethings, bewildered. “I just came here for a free Ariel concert.” 

 

Emma throws back her head and laughs. Regina’s lips twist. Ruby, maneuvering through the crowd, calls out, “Hey! Coming through! Feeding our candidate!” and sets down a bag, triumphant, in front of Regina and Emma. “Happy breakfast, Regina,” she says, breathless. “We’re about to make a  _ fortune  _ this weekend.” 

 

The Ariel fans stare. Regina inclines her head to them. “Your support is appreciated,” she says formally, rising. “Bring that energy to our rally on Sunday.” She stands up, no longer interested in lingering in the packed diner, and Emma follows her from the diner, throwing smug smirks at the interlopers. 

 

“I’m going to, you know,” Emma says once they’re outside, sidestepping a dozen tweens who are proudly wearing  _ LET’S TAKE BACK STORYBROOKE!  _ pins on their shirts. Regina blinks at her. “Register,” Emma explains. “It’s part of why I signed a lease. I looked it up and I think I can still register to vote.” 

 

“Oh.” Regina swallows. Emma has signed a lease, has moved a few things into a new apartment that Regina has still managed to avoid seeing, and Regina has found a reason, every night, for them to wind up back at her place.  _ Stay with me _ , she’d said, but she’d never quite clarified what she’d meant to Emma. It’s okay for now. Someday, she will have to spend a night without Emma. Not yet.

 

And Emma is going to register  _ here _ , to finally prove Storybrooke residency and put in a vote on Election Day. Regina’s heart feels as though it might keep expanding and expanding until it bursts, and she can barely manage to crack, “Oh, good. Killian Jones’s sex appeal snags another one.” 

 

Emma nudges her. “ _ Dork _ ,” she says, her fingers tangling and then untangling with Regina’s, so swiftly that it might have seemed incidental to an onlooker. They’ve gotten good at this, the quiet relationship that never veers obviously in the direction of  _ untoward _ . Hans and Anna have taken to calling Emma  _ Regina’s lieutenant _ in lieu of a better term for their relationship. Regina finds herself, with every passing day, caring less and less about appearances when it comes to Emma.

 

Instead, she only thinks about her mother, teeth bared in a dangerously cold smile,  _ I think you’ll find that that isn’t true _ . Mother has something on Emma, something that might break Emma– or Regina– or the campaign. Regina had fallen in love once before Emma, and Mother had taken that away with hardly a flick of her wrist. Emma  _ can’t  _ disappear. Regina  _ can’t _ –

 

She hasn’t told the Main Street shopkeepers about her new plan to spare them, hands tied by whatever it is that Mother is holding over Emma’s head. She walks on eggshells, wary of setting Mother off. Instead, their passive war continues, and Regina carries this fear for Emma like cold in winter, hovering around her until it’s too deeply infused. 

 

Maybe Emma already knows, just as Mulan already knows, just as Sabine already knows. No one breathes any word to Regina about the pressure they’re facing from outside, but Regina sees it in their drawn faces, in the way that every task seems to take more out of the campaign. Emma has the same shadows on her face sometimes, the same unnameable worry that threatens to consume them all. 

 

Regina doesn’t dare ask why, not now, not when Emma is already inching away from her. Instead, she only waits, itching for Election Day to  _ come  _ so the world can start turning again.

 

* * *

 

Election Day feels like months away. It’s three weeks and one day, but Emma craves it like she does air, like she does breathing and freedom and an  _ escape  _ from the whirlwind of anticipation and energy and fear. Every day seems to crawl by, a strange swap from when she’d been dreading the end.

 

Back then, the election had meant leaving town, had meant losing everyone who’d mattered to her. Now, it means  _ settling in _ , it means maybe taking David up on his offer and finding a place in this town. It means actual dates with Regina and getting to plan for her new position and having time to savor it all.

 

She can’t wait for campaigning to be  _ over _ . 

 

Some of the Ariel fans who’d surged into the town are now harassing townspeople, sneering down at Marco from the carpentry shop as they say, belligerent, “I don’t think you understand how historic it would be for a Latina to take the mayorship in this town.” 

 

Marco looks very confused. Emma says, “They’re really going to alienate every one of our supporters, huh.” 

 

“Seems like,” Regina says absently. “They’re very sure that it’s for our own good, though. It’s endearing.” 

 

Emma tilts her head, squinting at Regina. “You find  _ that  _ endearing? Since when?” 

 

Regina blinks, reconsidering her words. “Only on you,” she says, grimacing. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve been…distracted.” 

 

“I’ve noticed.” It’s not like Emma hasn’t been, too, though that’s because she has her own worries that Regina absolutely can’t know about. Maybe it’s just pre-election jitters. “What’s on your mind?” 

 

Regina averts her eyes, then shrugs, something clearing up inside them. “Oh, just a big day coming up.”

 

“Would that be in twenty-two days? Because I had this thing then, too, but I was gonna try to get out of it–” 

 

Regina shakes her head. “No, this is in eight days.” 

 

Emma blinks, confused. “Eight…days?” She does the math, and comes up blank, then checks her phone calendar. 

 

“Remember that time I did a background check on you?” Regina says conversationally. “I went back a few months ago and looked through it again, and I found a  _ very _ interesting fact about October 22.” 

 

Emma scoffs. Right.  _ That. _ “Okay, first of all, they don’t even know if that’s really–” 

 

“You were found in the woods in the early morning of October 23,” Regina says, her hand bumping against Emma’s. “Unless you were the oldest or youngest newborn ever, I think it’s the day. And it’s a day worth celebrating.” 

 

“I don’t  _ celebrate  _ my birthday.” Even when she’d been young enough to have foster parents, she had stopped expecting birthdays to be a celebration quickly. Too often, they went unnoticed, a quiet little party of one where she’d steal a candy or a bag of chips from a kitchen and eat it,  _ happy birthday to me. _

 

“Like you don’t go on dates?” Regina frowns at her, unimpressed. “I thought we were going to change these things.” She pulls open the door to campaign headquarters and holds it for Emma, a smirk now firmly on her lips. “You are having a birthday this year. I will accept nothing less.”

 

“You are the future Madam Mayor,” Emma says, conceding it easily. She’s  _ happy _ , she realizes in a sudden burst of wonder. She’s happy and she has Regina and this could easily be her life for a long time, if she doesn’t fuck it up. “Who am I to fight it?” 

 

“Let’s see how successful this rally is before we start making grand declarations,” Regina says, and they’re far enough into the cubicle that Emma can snake a hand over and pinch her ass in response. Regina yelps, attracting a few amused stares, and Emma saunters off smugly before Regina can retaliate. A pen hits her on the back, and she lifts a hand in a wave, her eyes flickering to the candidate’s office.

 

Neal and Tamara are in there, heads together as they speak in low voices, and Emma pushes the door open and shuts it behind her. “Okay, new rule,” she says, eyeing them. “You two don’t have any more private conversations without me being there to babysit.” 

 

“You were still in diapers when I graduated junior high,” Tamara says.

 

Neal grimaces. “Don’t say that. I used to  _ date  _ her.” 

 

“I’m glad we’re already far enough past that that we can joke about it.” Emma slides into Regina’s chair, propping her feet up on the desk. “So what are we talking about now? Have we brought Cora into our cabal now? How about Jones? Why not create a massive conspiracy–”

 

“Gold keeps insisting that he has something for us,” Tamara says, leaning against the door. “Something big.” 

 

Emma narrows her eyes at her. “No.” 

 

“It’s not that simple,” Neal says tiredly. “We’re neck-and-neck in the polls. We need whatever boost we can get.” 

 

“You know Cora will take whatever she can,” Tamara points out. “We can’t afford to–” 

 

“We can’t afford to be  _ Cora _ ,” Emma corrects her. “Regina doesn’t want any of this. Regina would be horrified if she found out that the reason why she won was the political machine she’s  _ fighting _ . And she can’t owe anything to Gold!” 

 

Neal shakes his head. “She  _ won’t _ . We will.” 

 

“Yeah? Because I don’t think his silence is going to be bought by his son coming to dinner a few times,” Emma shoots back, and from Neal’s silence, she knows she’s struck a nerve. She sighs. “Look. I want to win just as much as you do. But I know that Regina would never choose any of this. You can’t make these decisions for her.” 

 

Tamara sits on the desk, her lips pursed together, and she says, “You weren’t supposed to know about any of this. We’re not…you or Regina or Sabine. We’re not here to be  _ noble _ . We’re here to win.” 

 

“But now I know,” Emma says, unmoved. “And I’m not going to let you–” 

 

“What do we do, then?” Tamara demands. “We tell Gold to forget it? We back out of our deals with him? How do you think he’s going to take  _ that _ ?”

 

Emma pauses. This is Gold’s vendetta as much as it’s their campaign, Jones still the man who helped his wife leave him. Gold has his own agenda here, and Neal and Tamara are just carrying it out for him.  _ Do you really want to cross me, dearie?  _ he’d said, only to Tamara, and Neal had hurried to appease him.

 

He might not be so forgiving if they refuse to do that anymore. She remembers him standing with her in the mansion, his voice low and menacing as he’d warned her to  _ tread lightly _ . The news about Portland had gotten out soon after. Neal had planned to propose to Emma, and Cora had made her move with Sidney’s pictures the next morning. Emma wonders, for the very first time, exactly how the Gold-Mills partnership might operate, and a chill runs down her spine.

 

“I don’t know,” she says finally. “But I know that we can’t go on like this.”

 

* * *

 

Ariel arrives in town with a full cadre of bodyguards and a breezy demeanor that involves her hugging Neal about thirty times when she walks into campaign headquarters. “This is so  _ neat _ !” she exclaims, looking around the room in delight. “Like you see it on TV. A tiny little campaign in a tiny little town.” She drapes her arm around Neal’s shoulders. “I love it. You know, we’ve been following each other for  _ years _ , Neal Cassidy, and you’ve never once invited me to your little town before now.” 

 

“He prefers blondes,” Tamara says dryly.

 

“Actually, I think I’m kind of done with blondes for now,” Neal shoots back, slipping an arm around Ariel’s waist. Ariel winks at him, and Tamara watches, eyebrows raised.

 

“Is he  _ flirting _ ?” Emma mutters, leaning back against the wall beside Mulan.

 

Mulan snorts. “With which one?” All in all, Emma reflects, watching the singer and her ex interact, it’s unsurprising that she feels no resentment at all toward him for it. To be fair, she’d moved on much faster than he had. But it’s easy to watch and to be happy for him at another ill-advised relationship, at the two of them comfortable and very platonic.

 

Besides, she is the absolute winner of any relationship competition here. Her girlfriend emerges from the office, a warm, professional smile on her face, and she extends a hand to shake Ariel’s. “Ariel,” Regina says, clasping her hand. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. I love  _ Under the Sea _ .” 

 

She hates  _ Under the Sea _ , which they’d downloaded and listened to last night on repeat for hours. Ariel’s breakout album is warbling and fun, and Emma hadn’t  _ loathed _ it, but Regina had endured it with her teeth gritted and her eyes grim.  _ Allergic to fun _ , Emma had called her, and Regina had promptly showed her exactly how much  _ fun  _ she could be, that damned music still playing in the background.

 

Emma’s pretty sure she isn’t going to be able to attend the rally tomorrow with a straight face. “She really does love it,” she says helpfully to Ariel. “Listens to nothing else.” 

 

Ariel beams. “I’m so glad to hear it,” she says. “My next album,  _ Kiss the Girl _ , is coming out in January. I can give you all an exclusive preview tomorrow!” 

 

Regina bobs her head, her eyes looking just a tiny bit trapped. “That’s…that’s wonderful news,” she manages. 

 

“I think you’ll like it!” Ariel says brightly. “It’s a lot like my other one, but I try to make it much more inclusive. There are more songs celebrating the rich tapestry of human experience. I rap in one,” she says, turning to Tamara, who just stares at her. “And I sing about women loving women in a few,” she says, turning back to Regina expectantly.

 

“Oh,” Regina says, her eyes widening. “I– I’m not–” She looks flustered, more trapped than before, and Emma feels a certain level of fear at what it might do to Regina to deny anything now. 

 

“That’s great,” she says, stepping quickly forward. “My girlfriend and I love your music.” She gives Mulan a significant look, and Mulan rolls her eyes and refuses to move from the wall. “We started working on Regina’s campaign because of her progressive platform.” Regina’s eyes bore into her. Mulan heaves a long, loud sigh.

 

Ariel looks even more pleased. “I collaborated with k-pop sensation Bihyeong for one of the tracks,” she informs Mulan. “There’s something for everyone!” 

 

Mulan continues to stare at Ariel. Emma says, “Neal, why don’t you get Ariel settled in and give her the rundown for tomorrow?” 

 

“Right,” Neal says swiftly. “Let me show you the school gym where we’re holding the rally. We can set aside some rooms for you and coordinate with the sheriff here–” He guides her from the room into the candidate’s office, her security team following along behind her and Tamara at Neal’s side.

 

The rest of them are left in the main office, feeling a bit shellshocked, and Regina says curtly, “Emma, a word?” 

 

Emma follows her, eyebrows raising when Regina reaches out an arm and yanks Emma into the supply closet. “Is this really going to be a word, because–  _ mmph _ !” Regina is kissing her up against the wall, pressing her to a shelf full of  _ Regina Mills: taking back Storybrooke _ stickers and attacking her neck with her teeth. “I’m listening,” Emma says, attempting to get a kiss in. Instead, Regina pushes her back more violently, her hands digging under Emma’s shirt to run over her skin.

 

She’s everywhere at once, harsh kisses that turn soft only once Emma manages to get a grasp on Regina, cupping her face until Regina finally slows down. “Not that I’m not enjoying this,” Emma says, a little breathless, “But what brought it on?” Regina freezes, and Emma kisses the tip of her nose, gazing in quiet adoration at the woman whose face she’s cradling. Regina looks guilty, and Emma says, it dawning on her at last, “Is it because I acted Mulan was my girlfriend?” She narrows her eyes. “Or was it because I said you liked Ariel’s music?” 

 

Regina laughs silently, giving Emma a shove. “Shut up,” she murmurs, and her gaze is a little embarrassed. “I just…I don’t ever want to even  _ imagine  _ you dating someone else again,” she admits in a quiet tone. 

 

Emma exhales, brushing her fingers against Regina’s soft skin as Regina looks up at her beseechingly. “You’ve kind of ruined me for anyone else,” she admits, self-conscious in it. “So…that’s never…” She swallows, afraid to finish the sentence. She’s so far gone for Regina, and sometimes it feels as though Regina might be nearly as gone for her, too– but then there are reminders of how she’s never known anyone in her life to be permanent, of how Regina still hasn’t set foot into her apartment, of how Regina is so very clearly too good to be true– and then she doesn’t dare push too far. “I didn’t want you to have to tell Ariel anything about your sexuality,” she murmurs, looking away.

 

Regina stares at her for a moment, then sinks against her side. “Thank you,” she says, closing her eyes. “A little part of me shrivels up and dies every time I have to act as though I’m anything but a lesbian.” Emma wraps an arm around her and kisses the top of her head, out of words that might make it better. 

 

Because Regina, for all her mother’s tutelage and pressure, wants nothing more deeply than authenticity. Emma can’t gift it all to her, but she can keep her from compromising herself when it hurts, and that’s why– 

 

Neal and Tamara’s scheme is going to  _ destroy  _ her if she finds out about it. It’s going to make her second-guess everything she’s achieved until now, and it’s going to embroil her in the indecision that Emma’s left in right now. Regina can’t know about Gold, not until after the election, not until this is  _ done  _ and  _ away _ . Regina will be furious when she finds out, but that can’t be now, with only twenty days to go to this election and no time for intrigue or distraction.

 

They emerge from the closet a few minutes later, dusting off their clothes and straightening collars and shirts as though they’d only been conferencing. Ariel is still in the office, the shade over the window down, and Mulan looks up and says, “Your ass is covered in stickers, Emma.”

 

Emma pulls them off, red-faced, and Regina looks very smug as she saunters to one of the cubicles to make some phone calls. “We have work to do,  _ Mulan _ ,” Regina says, eyeballing Mulan.

 

Mulan looks very alarmed. “Oh, no. Keep me out of…whatever this new  _ thing  _ is. I’m an innocent.” She holds up her hands. 

 

Marian laughs. “It’s because Emma called you her girlfriend, isn’t it?” she says knowingly. 

 

“Shh,” Emma hisses, eyeing the volunteers at the front of the room. 

 

They’re a few of the usuals, and they avert their eyes when they see her watching them. Except Gwen, who says wearily, “Emma, we’ve been working here for a  _ really  _ long time. We’re not  _ dumb _ .”

 

Emma looks at Regina, chagrined. Regina leans back against the wall, closing her eyes, and hums the chorus to  _ Under the Sea _ .

 

* * *

 

Emma is still at Regina’s place in the morning, which Regina counts as a victory in a battle that Emma might not be entirely aware that they’re fighting. She’s out of clothes at Regina’s, and she peers through Regina’s closet for a good twenty minutes before she emerges with a pair of jeans that still have a price tag on them and a faded print tee that is definitely Ruby’s. “This is Storybrooke,” Emma protests when Regina raises her eyes at the ensemble. “No one would trust me in a pantsuit, anyway.” 

 

Regina gives her a look and then eyes the pantsuit that she has picked out for today. “What’s wrong with it?” 

 

“Nothing. It’s very mayoral,” Emma says, and Regina waits. Emma sighs. “It’s just…try a dress today, okay? You’re always a little stiffer in the pantsuits.” 

 

So Regina wears a grey dress, still sensible but more relaxed, and she can feel the difference in her movements almost from the start. The rally is an afternoon event, and they’ve rented out the high school auditorium for it. Emma is handling Ariel today, navigating the crowds and helping her around. “It’s all under control,” Emma promises Regina. “Go talk to people.” 

 

The auditorium is crowded with Ariel fans and with townspeople, and Regina doesn’t even have to paste a smile onto her face when a crowd of kids swarm her. “Regina!” She recognizes a few of them from the folder decorating at their Back-to-School event, and others from the parks and institutions where they campaign.

 

“Hello,” she says, lifting up a little girl. “Are you using all your new school supplies?” 

 

The girl bobs her head. “I’m learning my ABCs,” she says importantly, and Regina settles the girl against her side, crouching down to talk to the others.

 

“Is it true that  _ Ariel  _ is gonna be here?” another one asks, wide-eyed. 

 

Regina nods. “In fact–” She lowers her voice to a stage whisper, parents looking on in curiosity. “Would you like me to ask her to come here right now?” 

 

Ariel gets even more shrieks than Regina does when she glides down the hallway, wearing a glittery green sequined dress that makes her look even more like a mermaid than usual. The kids launch into a rendition of  _ Under the Sea  _ with her in the hallway, and Ariel glows. “I  _ love  _ small towns!” she announces.

 

Emma leans back against the wall, and Regina chats with the parents, feeling a pleased glow settle on her skin at the way that Emma is watching her. It’s comfortable, proud, and it feels almost domestic in how easy it is. “I’m pulling for you,” one of the parents says. “I know you’re young, but we could use some fresh-faced idealism in office.” 

 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Regina says lightly, and they all laugh. She sobers, catching their eyes. “I know it’s a tough election this year. But I didn’t come out of nowhere. I’ve cared about taking back Storybrooke for a long time. And I promise you all that even if I do lose, I’m not done. I won’t ever be done.” 

 

“Good,” says another parent, and Regina feels his approbation like validation, Storybrooke still rallying for this common cause.

 

She wanders away from Emma and finds a new group of townspeople, these concerned with the cars abusing extended parking on Main Street. Another gaggle have questions about the old defunct mines and the predictions that they’re going to collapse completely soon. A third set are just plain angry– angry about their jobs, about their healthcare, about their rents and mortgages and crime in Storybrooke. Regina finds that they’re both the easiest and the most difficult to speak to.

 

“I want to change that, too,” she says, grasping one woman’s hand. “I hear you. I think Storybrooke needs a complete overhaul in some areas–” She looks at them, worried at saying it aloud, but they’re all nodding. Some townspeople shy away when she’s brutally honest about it, but others agree, and they’re who she wants to reach. “And I want to focus first on bringing back good, paying jobs. The rest will follow.” 

 

“You know, I think you’re all talk,” one of the men says, eyeing her. Regina forces herself to smile politely at him. He shrugs. “But eh, I’d rather someone who talks big about change than someone who doesn’t even think it’s possible.” 

 

“Damn straight,” another agrees. “Jones is another corrupt politician who’s going to do whatever Cora Mills wants.” A murmur of disgust, and Regina shifts away from them and on to the next group. 

 

There are plenty of voters who still see Jones as the  _ safe _ option, as the one who will maintain the status quo rather than to make things potentially worse. More challenging than winning voters to Regina’s ideals has been convincing them that change is possible– that Storybrooke  _ can  _ be something more than it’s been for a long time now, and that Regina can do that.

 

She feels a twinge of guilt when she moves to the next group. It’s Marco, Archie Hopper, and a few other shopkeepers still struggling with the rent hike. “It won’t take effect for a few more weeks,” Michael Tillman says wearily. Regina knows he’s a mechanic and a single dad, struggling to make ends meet as his twins run wild with the Lost Boys. “Then I’m going to have to shut down. I can sell my business and start over–” 

 

“Ms. Mills is going to help us,” Archie Hopper says. He’s the only therapist in town, and he has an office and an apartment on Main Street. They’d asked him to speak at the rally and he’s been nothing but helpful since the start of the campaign. He looks at her now, trusting. “Have you found any loopholes?” 

 

Regina shakes her head, a bitter taste in her mouth at the lie. Mother had asked her to keep her breakthrough to herself almost casually, almost like it had been a request. Her comments about Emma, however, had made it clear that it had been anything but that. She craves telling these shopkeepers that she  _ can  _ help them– that she knows exactly how they can fight back. That’s what she’s campaigning to  _ do _ . But… 

 

But  _ Emma… _

 

“You’re enjoying yourself,” Emma murmurs to her when they meet again in the hallway outside the backstage rooms. Ariel is singing onstage, warming up the crowd, and Regina finally has Emma to herself again. “I keep seeing you chatting with new townspeople. You  _ like _ these people, don’t you?” 

 

“I don’t like  _ anyone _ ,” Regina shoots back. “Except for you, and you’re on thin ice.” Her hand caresses Emma’s for just a moment, out of sight, and Emma grins madly.

 

“Fine,” she says, rocking on the heel of her boots. “You don’t like them. But you care about them. It shows, too. The people here  _ love  _ you. Look at them.” Emma stops a doorway that opens right by the curtains backstage, giving them a perfect view of the crowd.

 

There are whole families in there, waving **_REGINA MILLS: LET’S TAKE BACK STORYBROOKE!_** signs. Others just hold up the giant signs that Jacinda had distributed that say, simply, **_REGINA_** _._ It’s like a sea of purple and gold, the colors they’ve used for the campaign, and _yes_ , probably two-thirds of the people present are Ariel’s out-of-town fans, but there are plenty of familiar faces there. 

 

Regina blinks back a sudden wetness in her eyes, and Emma slips an arm around her, casual and friendly, and squeezes her shoulders. Regina stops caring for a moment– doesn’t care that anyone could walk down the deserted hallway behind them and see them, doesn’t care that the curtains could blow open at just the right angle to expose them–

 

She twists in Emma’s arms and brushes a kiss to Emma’s lips, closing her eyes and exhaling. Campaigning has never come as a surprise to her, even being the candidate. These have all been expectations in her life, what she’s been groomed for from childhood. But having a girlfriend with whom she can share all of it…being in  _ love _ , with an equal fighting for the same things with matching ferocity…it’s something she’s only wished for in nebulous, half-dismissed dreams before Emma.

 

She understands too easily how Neal could make stupid, terrible decisions about  _ proposals  _ and _ marriage _ when faced with Emma Swan. One month together, and Regina is already living in her fantasies of the future. Emma has done this to her, has been everything she’s dreamed of and more. Emma in her arms is something to savor, and Regina holds her and thinks, for a frozen, despairing moment, of her mother with a dangerous smile at her lips.

 

Mother can’t touch Emma. Emma is the shining sun that warms her every day, that lightens each room just by being there. Emma is too  _ good _ to have Mother consume her as Mother consumes everything that Regina treasures, swallows it whole and then spits it out as only a husk. Emma is  _ everything _ , and Regina shudders at her touch, memorizes the shape of her lips and the way she traces patterns into Regina’s skin.

 

Ariel is winding down, and Emma brushes a final kiss to the tip of Regina’s nose and whispers, “I’ll see you later, okay? Your speech is great. Go knock ‘em dead.” She heads into the backstage, waiting for Ariel, and Regina walks down the hall to where she can enter the crowded auditorium. 

 

They’d asked Facilier, the political blogger, to do one of their warm-up speeches before Regina comes out, and he addresses the audience well, the people hooting and cheering whenever he mentions Regina. Next up is Mary Margaret, which had been Regina’s reluctant idea. “I truly believe that Regina Mills is exactly who we need in this town,” she says earnestly, and the crowd waves their signs excitedly. “She has the energy and the know-how to get things done. Just looking at where she started– from an underdog campaign with setback after setback to filling this gym with fans–” The crowd goes wild again, and Regina wills away the pleased flush on her cheeks and walks back to the prep room.

 

Their last speaker before Regina is Dr. Hopper, the psychologist from town who’d reluctantly agreed to speak. He’s pacing in the prep room, looking slightly nauseous, and Regina watches him from the window as Marian talks to him soothingly. 

 

She walks back to the little doorway where she’d stood with Emma before, watching the audience roar at something that Mary Margaret had said, and a voice behind her says reflectively, “You always were meant for adoring crowds. I worried for years after your student council presidency loss that you weren’t likable enough for it.”

 

Regina doesn’t turn. “Go away, Mother,” she says wearily.

 

“Can’t I come to watch my daughter’s rally?” But Mother sounds smug, as though she holds all the cards in her hands, and Regina shakes with restrained anger and fear. 

 

She twists around, her eyes dark. “What do you have on Emma?” she demands. It’s a concession, letting Mother know how much it  _ matters _ – how Mother’s words have been eating away at her for days now– but it’s one she can’t afford not to give. She thinks for a moment back to Emma, standing in this exact place in the hall, the whole future clear in her eyes.  _ No _ , Emma can’t be Mother’s collateral damage. Regina can’t bear it.

 

She forces her voice to be light and mocking. “A few arrests? We all know about those. Portland you’ve already used against her. What, did she kill someone? Did she–”

 

“You’re being dramatic, dear,” Mother says, her voice cloying. The door opens down the hall, and Regina freezes, certain it’ll be Emma. But it’s just Ariel and her security, walking her down the hall to the restroom. Ariel’s eyes light up in recognition when she sees Mother, and she beams at Regina until Regina smiles back uncertainly.

 

When she looks back at Mother, Mother is beaming at Ariel. It turns cold and hard once Ariel has disappeared down the hall. “Your… _ friend _ Emma has quite the checkered record. But she does seem to have found a place in Storybrooke, hasn’t she? I hear the sheriff’s department is determined to have her after the campaign. And, of course, she’s wormed her way into your heart.” Now Mother’s eyes are sharp. “We can only hope it doesn’t go the same it did the last time someone was so  _ fond  _ of her.” 

 

Mother turns, stalking away as though she’d won the argument, and Regina bolts after her, suddenly terrified. “What the hell are you talking about?” she demands.

 

Mother purses her lips. “Has she never mentioned a woman named Ingrid Fisher?” Regina stares, caught in bewilderment, and Mother says, “I can’t imagine what the Swan girl had done to push  _ her  _ away–” 

 

Regina’s eyes narrow. Is _ this  _ all Mother has? “She was suicidal. That wasn’t Emma’s fault. She loved Emma.” 

 

“Perhaps,” Mother says serenely. “Though, of course, not enough to retrieve her after her hospital stay after her suicide attempt.” She claps a hand to her mouth, her gaze victorious. “Oh, dear. Is Emma still not aware that her foster mother is alive?” She holds out her phone, displays an image. “How  _ very  _ heartbreaking.”

 

Regina stares at it before she can stop herself. It’s a picture, professionally taken by one of Mother’s many stalker photographers, of a blonde woman who looks to be in her forties as she walks down a street in a crowded city.  _ Ingrid _ , it must be, and the quality of the picture is certainly not from ten years ago. Then Emma had– 

 

_ I’d never really…before that, I never thought that anyone could love me _ , Emma had said, and she connects so much of herself to that moment when Ingrid had told her about the adoption, to the first time she’d felt like she’d been worth something. “You’re lying,” Regina says hoarsely. “Emma won’t believe you.” 

 

“I have spoken to the woman,” Mother says calmly. “Ms. Fisher remembers Emma, of course. She saw her hospital stay as a reason to start a new life, and without a pesky little teenager dragging her down. It’s no wonder that the girl has spent her life alone. She doesn’t have your charm with the people.” Her eyes are glittering, and Regina feels a cold wave of loathing, of fury and disbelief. 

 

Mother will stop at  _ nothing _ . She has no vested interest in Emma, or in any of the others. She doesn’t give a damn what she does to anyone except for Regina, and even with Regina it’s only about control. Mother wants her  _ gone _ , and– 

 

“I couldn’t even take my name off the ballot now if I tried,” Regina says shortly. “So I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish–” 

 

“Oh, darling, I wouldn’t ask that of you,” Mother says, and she steps forward, a hand settling on Regina’s wrist. It lands like a cuff, like a restraint holding her down instead of a light touch. “I’m sure you don’t want your dear friend Emma to find out all of this, but she’s merely a nobody, anyway. All I want from you is…one tiny little bit of silence.” 

 

Regina’s eyes narrow. “About this?”  

 

Mother shakes her head. “About your little plan to combat my rent hike,” she says, smiling up at Regina with glittering eyes. “No need to let the shopkeepers know at all.” 

 

“Why would you care–” Regina stops, staring at her mother. She  _ can’t  _ drop out now. Mother doesn’t want her to drop out anymore. Mother wants her to…

 

“You want me to lose,” she says slowly, and Mother smiles coolly. “You want me to lose so miserably that I’ll learn my lesson about defying you. But Jones and I are neck-and-neck. If I lose, it’s going to be close enough that this won’t be some humiliating chapter of my life that I’ll want to erase. And you want me broken. So you want me to seem ineffectual until I lose my whole voter base and any credibility I have.” 

 

“I want,” Mother says silkily, “That rent hike. And you want Emma Swan happy, don’t you?” She tilts her head in challenge, a look in her eyes that had once been enough to have Regina shivering in terror at what punishment might follow. “I think we can both get what we want here.” 

 

Regina watches her in silence, her stomach churning. Mary Margaret is wrapping up, and the crowd is cheering loudly from the auditorium. Mother glides away, ever confident, and Regina blurts out, “Why are you so  _ terrible _ ?” 

 

It’s a question she’s wanted answers to for longer than she’s been able to admit, and she blinks back stupid tears, feeling like a child again who had never been able to understand why her mother had been so different from how mothers should be. She quivers now, holds back the tears and the childlike urge to scream and cry, and Mother shakes her head. “You’ll find, dear, that I do everything I do for your own good. I make a convenient villain, I’m sure.” She smiles at Regina, almost gentle, a mockery of the cool smile from before. “But someday, you’ll understand exactly how much I’ve done for you.”

 

“I’ll never be like you,” Regina whispers hoarsely. “I’ll never understand any of it.” 

 

Mother raises her chin. “Then you’re a fool.” She sweeps out of the hall, and Regina stands alone, her arms tight around herself as she sways in place. 

 

Mother has every piece of proof that she claims to have. Regina doesn’t doubt it. Mother will launch an onslaught against Emma and think nothing of it, and Emma will have every one of her worst fears confirmed for as long as Regina doesn’t do exactly what Mother wants. Regina will be Mother’s puppet, even if she wins the campaign. For as long as Emma is in her life, both Emma and Storybrooke itself will suffer. 

 

Mother’s threats toward the others are material threats, ones that can be combated with material solutions. The rent hike, probation, even the divorce proceedings are only threats, and Regina can look past threats or work to fight back. What Mother will do to Emma will break one of them to pieces.

 

_ Emma or Storybrooke _ . The woman she loves or the town she’s sworn to save. One of them will be ruined by Mother for as long as Regina struggles to keep them. Eventually, both will be destroyed. Regina leans back against the wall, overwhelmed and lost, and the crowd shouts her name as she lifts her eyes to the ceiling and blinks away new tears.

 

Mother will never stop. Mother will never–

 

She walks into the prep room, and Emma hurries to her. “You’re after Archie,” she says, her fingers brushing Regina’s wrist. They move over the place where Mother’s hand had been on Regina’s, a healing touch like a balm on Regina’s skin, and Regina wants to kiss Emma again, to savor her touch and let it linger for another stolen moment. 

 

Here, now, she can’t. “Dr. Hopper,” she says, looking up. “Can we go for a walk? I think I may have found your way out of the rent hike.” 

 

* * *

 

Her speech goes well, which is a miracle in itself. She doesn’t know how she’s managed to keep her voice steady, how she can smile at the crowd and speak fiercely of fighting back against corruption in Town Hall. She doesn’t know how she does any of it, except that suddenly, it’s over and the people are roaring, signs flashing all across the crowd, and she just wants to go home and curl up on her couch with Emma. 

 

Instead, she stands in front of the crowd and raises her hands as they cheer, beaming down at them while her heart skips beats and her head pounds. Ariel is beside her a few moments later, an arm around her waist, and she takes the microphone and clears her throat.

 

“I was  _ so  _ excited to come here when I was contacted about this rally,” she says, and the crowd cheers madly. “Regina Mills is the unique kind of candidate who isn’t the product of a political machine. She looked at the racist, sexist structures at work in this town and she said  _ no _ .  _ No _ to corruption.  _ No _ to racism.  _ No  _ to sexism.  _ Yes _ to an inclusive, diverse government in small towns!” Regina keeps her smile pasted on as Ariel speaks, tries to feel the exhilaration in the way that she had when she’d peeked out at the crowd with Emma.

 

She pushes aside her doubts, her fears at what her mother might do next, and forces herself to remain in the moment with Ariel, forcing her smile to be blinding. In the audience, she glimpses Emma with a fist in the air, her eyes bright with the energy of the room. Ariel says, “Regina Mills has been fighting since Day One for a better Storybrooke for all of you. She’s never had help from the system for her campaign. She  _ rejects  _ the system. And in the time since I’ve gotten to know her, I’ve been amazed at her character and at how much she cares.” Regina’s smile is feeling a little less plastic now, as the crowd cheers for her. Down below, Emma is bobbing up and down, shouting herself hoarse. 

 

Ariel beams. “Regina Mills!” she shouts. “A woman of character!” She waits for the crowd’s roar to die down before she says, “And I have to say, I think it’s just  _ beautiful  _ how a mother-daughter team like Cora and Regina Mills have done so much for this town,” she says brightly, and Regina freezes. 

 

The audience murmurs, half of them cheering and the other half bewildered. Regina’s face burns, her smile still fixed on her face, and Ariel says, arm still around Regina, “When I see them, I really believe that the women we put in power are going to do great things. Cora Mills has always been an icon of feminism in politics, and now, her daughter takes on that torch!” she proclaims, and launches into a rendition of  _ Under the Sea _ without a pause for breath. 

 

Regina stands beside her, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, humiliated and grinning with her teeth gritted as Ariel sings beside her. Emma is frozen in the audience, eyes wide and horrified, and the townspeople are murmuring amongst themselves, pointing up at Regina and arguing vigorously.

 

It feels like hours before Regina can finally make her way offstage, Ariel inexhaustible and her fans lingering long after most voters have left, and she claps Regina on the back as they descend from the stage together. “I hope my performance gave you the boost you needed,” she says conspiratorially. “We need more women like you in politics.” 

 

Regina barely manages to nod, shaken. In one fell swoop, their musical guest has undermined Regina in a way that even Mother herself hasn’t managed until now. Storybrooke might overlook it or shrug it off– Storybrooke might not have even been  _ listening _ , because Ariel has been regarded with confusion more than anything else– but it’s  _ enough _ , a fuck-up of epic proportions that–

 

Tamara walks Regina back to the prep room where the rest of the team is holed up, her face grim as she stays wisely silent. Emma is pacing back and forth, and Regina’s heart sinks when her girlfriend looks up in anguish. “It’s my fault,” she says immediately. “I was her handler. I talked to her about what she was going to say, and I didn’t–” 

 

“It’s  _ fine _ ,” Tamara says, shrugging away their worries. “Storybrooke knows your platform. They’ll be confused, but you and Hopper both spoke about your mother. That’s what they’ll remember, not some idiot singer who had no idea what Storybrooke was before last week. You’re fine.” 

 

“I didn’t talk to her about our platform at  _ all _ ,” Emma says, desolate. She looks up at Regina, her eyes searching. “I should have mentioned your mother. I fucked up.” 

 

Regina’s heart pounds, pounds, and she cuts off Jacinda’s objection before the other woman can speak. “Yes, you did,” she says curtly, and she feels Emma’s startled gaze before she even sees it. Regina is rarely one to allow Emma to wallow in self-recriminations, and it aches to do it now, to say what she needs to say. “You were careless, and I made a mistake giving you responsibility like this when you clearly aren’t equipped to handle it.” Emma reels in place, gaping at her.

 

Mother will never stop hurting Emma. Mother will never stop using Emma. The truth about Ingrid is one blow, but it isn’t the only card Mother holds. Mother will find something else, as she always does. For as long as Emma is here, with Regina and with the campaign, Emma will be vulnerable. And faced with the choice of hurting Emma or losing her forever, Regina has no choice at all. “You’re fired,” she says, and Emma looks up at her, bewildered.

 

“Not funny, Regina,” Neal says. “Come on, she’s feeling guilty enough without–” 

 

Regina keeps her face stiff and emotionless. “It’s not a joke. You’re fired.” The others are all staring, brows furrowed as they struggle to understand it. Regina clears her throat. “This rally was one of our most expensive events. It’s less than three weeks to the election. We can’t afford fuck-ups like this, and we can’t afford to employ staffers who don’t understand that.” 

 

Emma stares at her, still uncomprehending. “Regina, if this is some…weird prelude to a surprise birthday thing–” 

 

Emma’s birthday is in less than a week. Regina had been determined to celebrate it, to give her a reason to look forward to her birthday.  _ Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. _ “Why is this so hard to understand?” Regina says sharply. “You’re  _ fired _ . Go to the office, pack up your things, and  _ go _ . We have no use for you here.” 

 

Emma flinches. Marian says, “Regina, maybe you need to cool down–” 

 

“You can’t  _ fire  _ Emma–” Sabine says, shaking her head.

 

Mulan is watching her, eyes hard, and Neal says, “Regina, come on–” 

 

“ _I am the candidate_!” Regina bites out, and she wants to sob. Everything around her has faded into background noise, and all she sees now is Emma, staring at her with a trapped, lost look on her face. Her disbelief is fading into resignation, into heartbreak, and it’s worse than anything that Mother might inflict on Regina. “If I say I want an employee gone, then I want her _gone_. So either support me in this or _get the fuck out_.” 

 

She freezes, closing her eyes and waiting. Mother wouldn’t give the others a choice, would make her power clear and unquestioned. Mother has already given every single one of them a reason to walk away. But everyone stands, frozen, not a whisper of movement around her.

 

Neal speaks. “Regina–” 

 

“Don’t bother,” Emma says dully, and now Regina hears her straighten, hears her turn around. “I’m leaving.” 

 

“Good,” Regina says, and she means it. Emma will  _ leave _ , will go out of town and away from Mother, far from where she can be hurt for only her relationship with Regina. Regina will be mayor of Storybrooke and do what she’d promised without her mother blackmailing her along the way. Emma will rightfully hate her for a long time, but maybe someday– maybe if Mother concedes, if there’s  _ peace _ , if Regina can only go back to Emma–

 

She turns around once Emma’s gone, walks mechanically from the room past six sets of accusing eyes, and leans against the wall of the hallway as she exhales a dozen hopes and fears, a dozen broken dreams, still feeling as though she’s in a haze. This is the right thing to do. This is the  _ only  _ thing to do, and she has to  _ move on _ , to lose the best thing that’s ever happened to her. She’s hurt Emma once to keep her from a thousand other hurts, and she can’t regret that now. She can’t go chasing after Emma and begging her to forgive her. She can’t throw the election, either– can’t surrender Storybrooke  _ or  _ let Mother know that Emma is a bargaining chip she can use.

 

_ No _ . There is no need to chase Emma to begin with. Emma is still  _ here _ , sitting on the floor against the wall opposite the prep room, her eyes blank. “I thought you were leaving,” Regina says, her voice sharp and unrecognizable.

 

Emma lifts her chin, and Regina sees defiance in her eyes, gleaming with all the strength that had first drawn Regina to her. “I don’t know what changed today,” she says, “Between an hour ago and now.” Her voice doesn’t crack, doesn’t break, and a ripple of mingled fear and pride runs through Regina. “But it’ll be a cold day in hell when I roll over and take it.” 

 

Knowing Emma means knowing the cruelest words to use, the words that will make her flee. “Maybe I just realized that I couldn’t keep employing an unqualified screw-up on a high-stakes campaign just because I was attracted to her,” she says coolly, and she wants to sob.

 

She doesn’t. This is too important to lose control right now.

 

Emma doesn’t flinch. Emma sits, unmoving as a statue, and her eyes still burn with a heat that scorches Regina. “Something is wrong,” she says. “You’re being an  _ ass _ , and you wouldn’t–” 

 

“You don’t know me very well,” Regina says, and she can’t bear to  _ do  _ this anymore, to lash out and lash out until Emma is scarred by it. She can’t be this person anymore, the one she’d been whom she’d cast aside. “You should have listened more when we first met.” 

 

“I think I listened fine,” Emma says, her eyes darkening, and Regina tears her gaze from Emma’s, feeling it burning into her back as she stalks away.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am LATE, I've got to run, but here is a chapter!!! I love you all tysm for your feedback!! Have a fab day!! Enjoy the pain!!
> 
> There are some brief mentions of/allusions to child abuse in this one when Cora shows up.

**OCTOBER 19**

_ 17 Days Until the General Election _

 

In the prep room, across the hall, the campaign team is arguing.

 

Emma hears them as though she’s on the other end of a very long tunnel, tones filtering through but the words too twisted by the wind to be comprehensible. Emma doesn’t hear much of anything except for her heartbeat, pounding against her chest as she struggles to process what had been a sledgehammer to it. 

 

Regina had– Regina had just–

 

She has the sudden, ridiculous urge to laugh hysterically. Had they even broken up? Or does Regina expect her to come back to her apartment tonight for some cuddling and dinner, a quiet evening after the long, rough day they’ve had? 

 

_ No _ , Regina doesn’t want that. Regina had tossed Emma out like yesterday’s newspaper, without a second thought, just like every other person Emma has ever…has ever–

 

She doesn’t dare think about  _ that _ . This is her life, over and over again, embraced then rejected, a mistake enough to lose everything and everyone she cares about. She’s left shell-shocked after Regina has cast her away, is devastated in an instant as an old pattern had proven true yet again. 

 

She stands on legs that have forgotten how to move correctly, stumbles across the quiet hall and peers into the room where the rest of the campaign team is still fighting. Inside, she sees an impossible sight: Jacinda and Sabine, standing opposite each other in the middle of the room, eyes narrowed as they fight in low hisses. Tamara says something, her tone reasonable, and Sabine snaps at her instead. Neal speaks up, tugging Tamara back, and Sabine and Jacinda go at it again. 

 

Emma watches, horrified. The team is coming apart at the seams, just as divided over what had happened. They  _ can’t _ –

 

Marian steps forward at last, speaking in a low tone, and Sabine snaps at her, too. But Marian keeps talking, undeterred, until Sabine is hanging her head and Jacinda is crying, tears slipping from her eyes as Sabine moves forward and wraps her arms around her. The others slump, defeat on their faces. Tamara is speaking again, this time to Marian, who nods grimly.

 

Mulan is standing off to the side, looking very young in comparison to the others, and her eyes are blank, lost. Neal notices her a moment after Emma does and slides an arm around her shoulders, murmuring to her. They both turn at the same moment, catching Emma’s eye by chance, and Emma jerks away, spooked at the idea of talking to any of them right now.

 

She staggers down the hallway, swallowing. Their allegiance is to Regina, even if they don’t agree with Emma’s dismissal, and she can’t put any of them in a situation where they feel as though they have to choose between them. She can’t sabotage the  _ campaign _ , which is–  _ seventeen days _ –

 

And with seventeen days to go, she’s been dismissed. 

 

It makes no sense. If Regina wanted to get rid of her– and maybe she  _ had _ , because she’d pushed for Emma to find that apartment and then had gotten cranky about it, too, when Emma had been slow to move out– then why now, when it would shake up the campaign? How could she possibly think that this is what’s best for the campaign? Emma has certainly made her mistakes, but it has always been Regina who’d been her most ardent defender, who had been there all the way, insisting that Emma has what it takes to work here. It’s been a long time indeed since Regina had said she’d wanted Emma gone, even before the primary.

 

But Regina has never, not since the day they’d met, actually tried to  _ fire _ her. Regina had seen something in her early on that had made her believe that Emma had been worth keeping. A part of Emma has always known that Regina would eventually realize that Emma isn’t a treasure– that Emma is nowhere near the gift to the campaign that Regina proclaims she is. Another part of Emma had actually  _ believed  _ Regina, had gained confidence in herself and her abilities, had even thought that she and Regina might be well suited for each other–

 

She swipes angrily at her eyes. She isn’t going to run out crying. She isn’t going to give the media that kind of material. She just has to get  _ home _ , to an apartment where she’s never so much as spent the night, and then she can have a breakdown. She just has to make it out of this school, where the stragglers are still laughing and singing Ariel songs in the gym, where no one here can see her fall apart.

 

She makes it to the front door, smiling blankly at the townspeople who brush past her. She pushes open the double doors to the school, and is met with a sea of purple and gold.

 

No one has really left the rally. There are still crowds of families, of teenagers, of adults all arrayed outside, still in the campaign colors, still carrying the signs that had been given out at the rally. Little girls wind around their parents’ legs, waving  **_LET’S TAKE BACK STORYBROOKE!_ ** signs happily, and Emma sucks in a sharp intake of breath at the sight.

 

Storybrooke is alive with  _ hope _ , with belief that Regina can save it. The campaign has brought the town to life, has given them energy for change, from the little girls with Regina stickers on their shirts to the Lost Boys waving at Emma from on top of the school gates; from the shopkeepers from Main Street who are speaking excitedly amongst themselves to the parents who watch their cheering children with unrestrained pride.

 

Regina has done this. The campaign has done this, and Emma is gripped with sudden affection and determination, with a certainty that they’ve done something  _ good _ . Regina might want her gone, and Emma can’t change her mind. Emma can’t force Regina to care about her again. But the campaign still  _ matters _ , and Emma refuses to let go of it now, even if she’s been fired.

 

She’s a runner. Everyone knows it, and Regina most of all. Emma has set down roots in Storybrooke and Regina has torn them all out in one fell swoop, and Regina must have done it so that she’d leave. Regina wants her gone, for some reason that still feels incomprehensible, that is still impossible to understand.

 

Fuck  _ that _ . Emma Swan has found something worth fighting for.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Emma isn’t there.

 

It’s to be expected, of course, seeing as she hadn’t been there the night before, either. Regina had gone home and ignored the phone calls, text messages, and knocks at her door. She’d curled up into bed earlier than she’s slept in months and laid there for hours, staring blankly into space with a pillow in her arms.

 

But somehow, by morning, she’s forgotten about the events of the night before, and she rolls over with a sleepy smile, yawning, and says, “Emma?” drowsily. 

 

Silence. No movements in the kitchen, no tossing and turning on the couch. Just silence, then dawning realization.

 

Regina lets out a cry, hoarse and anguished, and falls back onto her pillow, at once unwilling to leave a bed that still has Emma’s scent on it. 

 

She’s late to work for the first time since the campaign had begun, and she still drags her feet as she forces herself out the door. She drives to work, huddled against the wheel, and she parks the car down the block from the office and leans back against the seat.  _ Breathe. In, out. In, out. _

 

_ Emma _ .

 

Her heart feels as though it might burst in her chest, her throat burning with unshed tears. Emma won’t be in the office. As far as she knows, Emma’s already left town. Her campaign staff is fractured, judging from her explosion after the rally, and she’s on her own. She doesn’t know what she’ll find inside the office, and she’s brought back to the morning after the dinner dance and the dread she’d felt when she’d walked inside.

 

This is different. Today, she’s the villain.

 

She closes her eyes and breathes a shuddering breath, preparing herself for a new role. When she opens her eyes, they’re grim, irritated, and she’s reminded of her natural mode of being, back when Emma had first joined the campaign.  _ Offputting. Angry. Scary _ . 

 

Good. She slides out of the car and strides down the block to the office, a fixed smile on her face as she greets townspeople on her way in. It fades when she pushes the door open, glancing around the room. She doesn’t know what she expects, how many people she’d lost overnight–

 

But Jacinda and Sabine are back at their cubicle, looking over a printout together. Neal is on the phone, a grin on his face as he sweet-talks whoever it is he’s negotiating with. Tamara is typing emails, Marian and Mulan are conferencing at Mulan’s cubicle. And–

 

Emma is sitting on the floor in the front section, legs stretched out in front of her as she licks envelopes.

 

For a moment, Regina entertains the thought that the events of the rally had only been a bad dream, that Mother had never made her threats and that Emma’s right where she belongs, at the campaign doing whatever needs to be done. But no, Emma’s eyes on her are stubborn and challenging, and Regina can feel panic rising in her throat. “What the hell is she doing here?” she demands, gesturing abruptly at Emma. “I thought I fired her.” 

 

She gets baleful stares from the others, no one budging an inch. “She’s a volunteer,” Tamara says finally, expressionless. “We aren’t in the habit of firing volunteers.” 

 

Regina’s fingernails dig into her palm, and she’s  _ terrified _ , terrified of Mother seeing Emma here and taking action– terrified of Mother seeing Emma still as a victim to harm on her warpath. “I want her gone.” 

 

Emma speaks. She’s pale, dark circles beneath her eyes, and Regina longs desperately to hold her. But her words are cold and hard. “I volunteered for this campaign because I believe in it. And I believe that you’re the best candidate Storybrooke’s ever had for mayor. I’m not leaving.” 

 

Regina trembles inwardly. Outwardly, she sneers. “We must have some protocol for unwanted volunteers,” she says, turning to look at Marian and Neal, her most reliable allies in the room. 

 

Neither of them budges. “Nope,” Marian says.

 

“All volunteers here are wanted,” Neal shoots back, his eyes probing. Regina looks away and finds herself caught in Emma’s stare again. She freezes for an instant, her heart skipping a beat. Emma’s eyes are sharp and unyielding, and Regina feels as though she might drown in them. She needs Emma as much as she needs oxygen, needs her in her arms and–

 

–at least Daniela had  _ disappeared _ . This is so much more agonizing. 

 

She tears her eyes from Emma’s and marches into her office, yanking the shade down and slamming the door. Someone will venture into the room eventually, she knows, and she can’t be found curled up on the floor in tears if they do.

 

Seventeen days until the election. She has to get to work.

 

* * *

 

No one had said anything to Emma when she’d come in in the morning. She’d walked into the office, her heart quickening against her ribs, and Tamara had looked up, seen her, and nodded once before she’d looked back down. Emma had thought it might be approving, but  _ then _ , she has some unfinished business with Tamara and Neal.

 

More bewildering had been Jacinda, who is solidly in Regina’s corner and had smiled when Emma had stepped up to her desk to ask, “Are you in charge of volunteers now?” It had been Emma’s job before, back when she’d been an actual employee and part of the team, a whole twenty-four hours ago.

 

“You’re volunteering,” Jacinda had said, and she’d squeezed Emma’s hand and smiled warmly at her.

 

Emma had shrugged, self-conscious. “I want Regina to win,” she’d mumbled, and she’d felt obligated to add, “Even if she’s an  _ ass _ .” 

 

Jacinda had snorted. “I think we can find something for you to do,” she’d said, but Emma had insisted on doing volunteer work alongside their usuals, making phone calls and sending off mailers. She isn’t giving Regina any reasonable reason to kick her out of the office.

 

_ Again _ .

 

Last night had been her first night in her apartment– her first night  _ alone  _ since  _ February _ – and she hadn’t slept at all. She’d tossed and turned and scrolled through texts with Regina, through pictures taken together and semi-flirty emails, searching for some clue as to what had set Regina off. 

 

Regina isn’t needlessly cruel. She’s defensive, stuffy, and occasionally sharp, but tossing Emma away in that way hadn’t been– it isn’t  _ Regina _ , and Emma refuses to believe that it is. She  _ can’t  _ believe that it is, because knowing  _ that _ might break her for the last time. 

 

So she’s going to fight back. She isn’t leaving this campaign seventeen days before the end. She isn’t doing what Regina wants her to do, just because Regina is trying to break her. She’s fought to be a part of this campaign, and she’ll do it again, regardless of what she’d done to push Regina away.

 

She stuffs envelopes and then hoists the box up into her arms, a steadying hand on hers when she hits the doorway. “Sorry,” the person beside her says quickly when she recoils. It’s Aurora, Mulan’s newest pet project, and she flushes when she sees Emma staring at her. “I…I’ll go,” she says, glancing at the rest of the office anxiously. “I just wanted to see if you needed a hand.” 

 

Emma blinks at her. “Aren’t you working for Cora?”  

 

Aurora shakes her head. “I haven’t been returning her calls,” she mumbles. “Mulan talked to Mary Margaret and David about dropping the charges, and I think…I don’t think she has anything on me right now.” She smiles, a tiny little one that sparks brighter when she sees Mulan, and she says, “I want Regina Mills to crush her mother, you know? And I owe Mulan about a thousand favors, so–”

 

“Yeah.” There are spots of color high on Aurora’s cheeks when she talks about Mulan, and Emma tilts her head and decides that, for all Aurora’s flaws, she might just be what Mulan needs right now. “Cool.”

Emma lifts the box and Aurora helps her, supporting her load as they walk down the street. “What did Cora have on you, anyway?” 

 

Aurora shrugs, looking miffed at the question. “Nothing that matters anymore,” she says defensively, and she takes off back to campaign headquarters. She nearly bumps into Mulan at the door, and Emma grins as she watches them fumble around each other, smiling uncertainly up through their eyelashes.

 

The smile fades as she returns to the office. It’s only midday, but the other volunteers are packing up and leaving, their curious glances flickering to Emma and then away, just as quickly. Emma ignores them, heading back to Jacinda expectantly. “Anything else?” 

 

Jacinda watches her for a moment, and then she sighs. “We’re recently short a field director,” she says finally. “We could use a volunteer to fill in. Maybe you can brainstorm some last-minute campaigning plans? Little projects to keep the candidate visible.” 

 

_ The candidate _ , she says. They’d called Robin Locksley  _ the candidate  _ all the time, but that tic had faded with Regina’s candidacy. Regina is one of them, isn’t just a candidate but a friend, is someone they love. There’s an odd sort of distance in Jacinda calling Regina  _ the candidate _ . “Yeah,” Emma says blankly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

“There’s an open cubicle right across,” Jacinda says mildly, nodding to Emma’s old cubicle. “Make yourself comfortable.” 

 

Emma grins, sliding into the seat. Her heart feels fragile, bruised and broken as she hadn’t thought it could be anymore; but there are approving eyes on her as she takes her seat, Tamara winking at her and Sabine looking smug, and she isn’t quite discarded just yet. 

 

There aren’t any big events to come, not this close to the campaign. Instead, they have an exhaustive schedule of door-to-door campaigning and personal phone calls, enough that Emma is busy for hours just assigning out phone numbers and double-checking addresses, divvying them up amongst the volunteers and campaigners. She skips lunch, buried in her work, and she doesn’t even realize that it’s dark out until the door to the candidate’s office slams open and Regina growls, “What is  _ she  _ still doing here?” 

 

She stalks out of the office, staring Emma down, and Emma forgets for a moment that they’re over and that she isn’t supposed to be here at all. She looks up at Regina, struck by the firm line of her jaw and the way her eyes seem to spark with fire, and her heart stops for a moment, so hopelessly infatuated that she jumps when Regina slams a hand down on her desk. “You are  _ not  _ an employee here,” she barks out. “You don’t get a  _ desk _ . You don’t get  _ anything _ .” 

 

Emma stares up at her, baleful, and a tiny part of her just desperately wants to look into Regina’s eyes and grasp what she’s  _ doing _ , what has made her  _ be _ this to Emma. Instead, she says, “Fine. My spreadsheets are on file. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

She stands abruptly, moving past Regina out of the cubicle. Regina grabs her arm and Emma freezes, the two of them suddenly very still. Regina’s hand is stiff, clutching onto her with an iron grip, and it’s nothing like their other touches– like soft moments, fleeting brushes and heated kisses. Emma gulps in a breath, catching Regina’s eyes, and for a moment, there’s something unguarded within them.

 

For a moment, Regina looks desolate.

 

Then a mask passes back over her face, settling into place, and Emma is nauseous at the sight of it. “I want you out of this campaign,” Regina says, her teeth bared and her eyes hard. She reminds Emma of a cornered animal right now, prey instead of predator even when she still holds all the power. “I want you  _ gone _ .” 

 

“I want you to take back Storybrooke,” Emma whispers, and Regina’s hand quakes against her skin, her gaze stricken. “I’m not giving up on this campaign.” 

 

Regina tears her hand away, whirling around, and she stares at their audience of campaigners with hard eyes. “You’re an idiot, Emma Swan,” she says bitterly, and she makes a break for the door, stalking to it without stopping to pick up her coat from the closet.

 

The wind hits when the door opens, a chill settling over the office, and Emma grits out, “For fuck’s sake,” and hurries to the coat closet, pulling out Regina’s coat. She jogs after her where Regina is battling the elements, hair whipping about her face as she hurries down the block, and Emma shouts out, “Regina!” 

 

Regina turns, and Emma catches up to her, holding out the coat. “You– we can’t have the candidate freeze to death,” she says breathlessly, offering Regina a sheepish smile.

 

It’s a peace offering, and Regina doesn’t take it. “Would you stop?” she bursts out, and she looks pained. “Can’t you just leave me alone, Emma?” 

 

“You kind of threw me for a loop,” Emma retorts, raising her voice against the wind. “I thought we were doing well. I thought you were happy–” 

 

“I’d be happy if you’d just leave town!” Regina says, almost desperate. “If you’d stop coming into the office and– and just  _ go _ –” 

 

There must be some reason why Regina wants her gone, something other than one screw-up at a rally that the people of Storybrooke seem to have shrugged off. “I signed a lease,” she points out. “For the apartment  _ you  _ wanted me to get.” 

 

“Ha!” Regina stares at her in furious disbelief. “I didn’t  _ want _ – fuck you, Emma Swan!” she says, and now she looks angry, almost childishly frustrated. “I didn’t ask you to sign a lease!” 

 

“I was trying to prove that I’d  _ stay _ ! That we could have an adult relationship! I thought we had– I thought we were going to last more than a _ month _ !” Emma says, and she thrusts the coat at Regina again, angry and on the verge of tears. “I didn’t realize you’d be done with me so quickly!” 

 

Regina stares at her, and this time she takes the coat, her face unreadable. “Well,” she says slowly, “I got what I wanted from you, didn’t I?” Emma blinks at her, wordless. “I wanted you  _ away _ from my brother. I wanted you off the campaign. And now I’ve won.” She doesn’t sound triumphant, though, only sad, and Emma is furious again. 

 

“Stop it! Stop  _ lying  _ to me!” she says, the wind biting at her cheeks and yanking tears from her eyes. “This wasn’t some shitty long game. You didn’t plan this all to get rid of me. I know you aren’t your mother!” 

 

Regina moves forward, too close, and Emma doesn’t budge. Regina stands an inch or two higher with her heels on, and she’s mastered the skill of looming so effectively that Emma finds herself looking up at her, her presence all-consuming. Her lips are just millimeters away from Emma’s, and Emma trembles with want, with regret and sorrow and hopeless desire. “That,” Regina purrs, and the wind carries her voice to Emma a dozen times at once, a murmur caressing her ears, “Was your first mistake.” 

 

Emma moves with her, eyes glued to hers, and Regina pulls abruptly back, storming to her car. Emma leans against the closest store as Regina starts her car, the headlights bright on the dim street, and she feels a wave of weariness and despair settle over her.

 

If she cries, it’s only from the harshness of the wind, tearing moisture from her eyes against her best efforts.

 

* * *

 

Regina is being haunted.  _ Haunted _ , most certainly, because there’s no other way to describe an existence where Emma Swan seems to be everywhere she turns. She wants to shout at the unfairness of it, to cry out  _ I’m trying to do the right thing! _ and be done with it, but doing the right thing has never gone so easily. 

 

And Emma isn’t making this easy, either. She’s there in the office from the moment work begins, making phone calls at a cubicle that isn’t supposed to be hers, working her charm on half of Storybrooke as she encourages them to vote for Regina. There’s a smile on her face when she does it, a finger twisting the phone cord around her finger absently, and she blows through a tenth of their whole list in just a day.

 

When she sees Regina watching, her eyes turn hard and the smile curls into a smirk, and Regina is forced to match it with a brittle, cold smile that feels as though the smallest shift might shatter it. Emma continues to be dangerously productive, and Regina’s reign over the office is weakening more and more with every day spent avoiding Emma’s eyes.

 

At least, the last time her mother had done this to her, she hadn’t had to face her heartbreak every day. She’d moved on, left only with a tiny gnawing pain of a lack of closure, and her heart had healed. This time, her heart feels as though it’s being bruised daily, covered with gaping sores that will never close.

 

She closes herself off from the others, watching with narrowed eyes as they rally around Emma. “I think we need a new field director,” she announces that Wednesday, two weeks to Election Day. “We can’t finish this campaign in the field without someone supervising.” 

 

Emma’s smile fades, her eyes turning hard and flinty, and she turns back to her computer. Sabine laughs incredulously. “You can’t be serious.” 

 

“I’m dead serious,” Regina says. Emma won’t  _ leave _ , stays lingering in the office no matter how desperately Regina tries to push her away, and every moment is another where Mother might take action against her. 

 

Sometimes, Regina lies in bed at night and wonders just how she could have been so  _ stupid  _ about Emma’s damned apartment. She’d been afraid to pull Emma too close, had been certain that Emma would run at the slightest sight of commitment. Instead, Emma stubbornly remains, fixed in place at though she’d been transplanted here, and Regina is awash in regret at how she’d never just told Emma– before–

 

But that would have made this even harder. She fiddles with something in her pocket, then pulls her hand out as she feels expectant eyes on her. “So that’s it, then? You all support me right up until I do something you don’t like–” 

 

“Stop,” Jacinda says, holding up a hand. “Just stop this.” She looks tired, sad, and Regina feels a twinge of guilt and a lot of fear.

 

“Fine,” she says, retreating to a more comfortable anger, and she whirls around and stomps back into her office.

 

Jacinda follows, the others hanging back. Even Neal has been subdued lately, distant and absorbed in something he hasn’t seen fit to enlighten her about. He lurks in corners, speaking to Tamara in low tones, and sometimes Emma joins them. A part of Regina is frustrated at it, at their friends and coworkers determined to make sure that Emma still has a place here when staying here is going to be her undoing.

 

A part of Regina is just glad that Emma isn’t hurting alone.

 

She stifles that part around the others. “I get it,” she says, her back to Jacinda. “I’m the bad guy. I’ve been hurting poor, innocent Emma, who just made a mistake, and you all want me  _ gone _ –” 

 

“Shut up,” Jacinda says, closing the door behind her, and Regina turns around. Jacinda’s eyes are steely. “Stop  _ pretending  _ that this is about some comment of Ariel’s and tell me what’s going on.” 

 

They all know she’s been bullshitting them about  _ why _ Emma’s gone, and Regina says, “What do you think is going on?” Marian is sure it’s about the relationship, has come over every evening with Roland to probe Regina gently about what had gone wrong. Ruby had asked her, yesterday morning, if it had been her fault for finding Emma that apartment. 

 

Regina lets them believe whatever works. But Jacinda says, “Your mother did something, didn’t she?” 

 

Regina stiffens. “No,” she lies. 

 

Jacinda shakes her head. “You know, when you kept sending Sabine and me away from the campaign, at least we  _ knew  _ why. You owe it to Emma to tell her the truth.” 

 

The truth would be as damning as Mother’s actual attacks would be. And it wouldn’t be the end, either. Mother never stops. Mother will keep hurting Emma for as long as Emma’s pain is a weapon to be used against Regina. Emma can’t be that weapon anymore. Regina refuses to respond, turning away again. “I have phone calls to make,” she says, her voice rough and her shoulders so straight that they’re beginning to ache. “Can you just–” 

 

Jacinda moves forward, slipping an arm around Regina’s waist, and Regina shakes silently, feels tears threatening to erupt. “Talk to her,” Jacinda whispers. “Tell her what’s going on. You owe it to yourself, too.” 

 

A kiss to Regina’s cheek, and she’s quaking, bracing her hands against the desk to steady herself as the agony sets in. “I can’t,” Regina chokes out. “I can’t–” 

 

“Don’t let her take this away from you,” Jacinda murmurs. “ _ Please, _ Regina.” But Regina doesn’t answer, lost in dull sorrow, and Jacinda leaves in silence.

 

Regina’s hand slips into her pocket again, squeezes the little box in it, and the tears finally trickle down her cheeks.

 

* * *

 

It’s Wednesday, Regina has just floated the idea of replacing Emma altogether, and Emma is tired, ready to curl up in bed and pretend that today had never happened. Instead, she’s sitting in a car with Neal and Tamara, leaning against the backseat car window and watching them tiredly as they squabble. “He isn’t going to wait much longer,” Neal says, shaking his head. “And this could be  _ it _ . Whatever he has, he seemed sure that it would win the campaign for us.”

 

“We don’t want it,” Emma says wearily. “Regina doesn’t want it. You both know that.” She might have been thrown for a loop on what Regina  _ wants _ , but she knows that this isn’t it.

 

Neal sighs, switching the car into drive. “Emma–” 

 

“No,” Emma says. “I don’t want to hear it. We don’t need Gold. We don’t want his favors. The people of Storybrooke  _ love  _ Regina. She’s going to win.”

 

There is only stubborn silence in the front seats. “I don’t want to risk that when it can be a sure thing,” Neal says finally. “We don’t know what Cora might still have up her sleeve, but she’s been pretty quiet lately, hasn’t she? She’s preparing something.” 

 

Tamara speaks up for the first time since they’d gotten into the car. “The one thing we have to keep in mind,” she murmurs, and her voice is delicate, careful. “A Gold who isn’t working with us is a Gold who is almost certainly working with Cora. Jones or not, his son rejecting him is going to be a blow to his ego. And Gold is…” 

 

Neal cuts in. “We tried ending it,” he says, and now he sounds pained. “When we knew you and Mulan were digging. I went to my father and told him we were done, and that I would repay our debt. Papa laughed in my face. And the next day, Cora had Tamara’s firm pull her out of the campaign.”

 

Emma stares at them, startled. “What?” Tamara, she’s always thought, has been the most practical of their campaign staff. She isn’t fighting for Storybrooke out of ideology as much as it’s a job for her, and a favor for some friends. “So how–” 

 

Tamara leans back against her seat. “I’ve been dismissed,” she says. “And blackballed. I’ve applied to a half-dozen other consulting agencies in New England, and no one will so much as interview me.” She shrugs. “So no, I don’t think it’s a good idea to screw over Gold on Regina’s behalf.”

 

“Tamara,” Emma says, gaping at her. She hasn’t known what to think of her lately, between all the skulking and that almost desperate threat on the night before the street fair. She hadn’t imagined that Tamara might have lost more than almost anyone else on the campaign. “I thought…I didn’t realize you cared so much.” 

 

Tamara scoffs. “I don’t care,” she says, but there’s a hitch in her voice, and Emma watches her with aching sadness. “I just want to  _ win _ .” 

 

Neal slips a hand into Tamara’s, and Emma stares at their locked hands, lost in indecision. Tamara says, tugging her hand away. “Stop that. Emma’s going to think that we’re  _ in love _ . I’m fine. We’re all going to be fine.” She keeps her hands flat on her lap for the rest of the ride.

 

They step out of the car across from Cora’s mansion, traipsing up the stairs in silence. Emma still doesn’t know what they’re going to  _ do  _ during this meeting, doesn’t know how they’re supposed to disentangle themselves from Gold when they’re in so deep. But still they ascend, right up until they’re in front of the door and Neal says, “This way.” 

 

He ducks around to the side of the house, where there’s a small staircase leading to a basement door, and he walks down it and then knocks.

 

Gold opens the door, his eyes flickering over all three of them. “Emma Swan,” he says softly. “I was under the impression that you’d been dismissed from the campaign.” 

 

There’s a note to the comment, an odd inflection to his voice, and Emma is far too tired of dwelling on her heartbreak to piece together Gold’s reaction to it. “I was. I’m hard to shake,” she says blandly. “Just like you, it seems.” 

 

Gold laughs coldly, walking into the house. They’re in his office, a large room that is cluttered with everything from file cabinets to odd knick-knacks. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, chaos in the midst of Cora Mills’s perfectly kept house, and yet, Gold seems to move through it with purpose. “My offer stands,” he says, turning to face them, and his eyes soften when they settle on Neal. “Bae,” he says, reaching out to curl a hand onto Neal’s shoulder. “I want to give you this. Don’t let a pretty girl’s silly self-righteousness put to waste all the work you’ve done on this campaign.” 

 

Neal recoils, and there is always something very small in how he presents in front of his father, afraid and desperate and lost. “I…” He looks to Emma, helpless, and Emma clears her throat. 

 

“He wants out,” she says. “We all do.” 

 

Gold’s eyebrows shoot up. “Do you?” 

 

It sounds menacing, and Emma swallows, unbalanced. “Look,” she says. “Whatever you want for what you’ve done so far…we can take care of that as long as you leave Regina out of it. But we’re done. We can win the campaign without your help. We don’t want what you have for us, and I think that we can…can shake hands and call this some effective business for everyone involved, can’t we?” 

 

Gold is still staring at her, looking very amused, and he says, “I think not. I dealt with my son, not with you.” 

 

“Emma’s right,” Neal says, looking back at her, then Tamara. Tamara gives him a subtle nod. “We can’t do this anymore. It isn’t what Regina would want.” 

 

Gold tilts his head. “I suggest you three go home and think for a little while more about what you believe Regina Mills might want most of all,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “And consider the consequences that might come with cutting off our arrangement before it’s run its course.” He glances at his watch, contemplative, and says, “I will give you…five days.”  

 

Neal looks pale and defiant, and Tamara doesn’t move. Emma says, “We won’t need it.” 

 

“We’ll see,” Gold says silkily. “You don’t want to make an enemy of me, Miss Swan.” 

 

“I seem to have plenty of those already.” Emma straightens, turning to the door. “Let’s go. I’m tired.” She can feel the foul mood setting in now, the certainty that yet another thing in her life is spiralling out of control, and  _ today _ , of all days. 

 

They escape to the car in silence, and Neal hunches over the wheel, brooding. Tamara says, “That was a threat. He’s a wild card, and he’s going to tear us to pieces if we reject him.”

 

“He’s going to tear  _ Regina  _ to pieces,” Neal corrects her tiredly. “We can’t– how are we supposed to decide  _ that _ ?” 

 

For a moment, Emma considers telling Regina about this, risking more of her fury to let her know exactly what this decision is. But  _ no _ , whatever comes next, Regina has to be able to swear that she had had no idea of their involvement. She can’t be dragged into this mess, that seems to taint everyone who touches it.  _ Gold’s effect _ . Two weeks before the campaign ends is no time for a scandal. 

 

“I don’t know,” she says finally, and her convictions feel weak now, drained by days spent in turmoil. “Maybe I’m wrong about what Regina wants. I’ve been wrong before.” Neal reaches behind his seat to squeeze her knee, his eyes troubled and sympathetic.

 

The office is dark when they drive past it on the way home, only the candidate’s office lit up. Regina must be inside, working ridiculous hours again now that Emma isn’t there to force her to relax, and Emma swallows back another frustrated sob.

 

The past few days have been  _ hell _ , and even clinging to this one loose end with Gold hasn’t been enough to distract her from it. Regina has been cold and the office has been in turmoil, and Emma still doesn’t  _ understand. _

 

She must have done something wrong. She must have hurt Regina somehow, must have done the unforgivable, but she’s wracked her brain for explanations and hasn’t been able to come up with a single reason. Maybe it was just her  _ fucking  _ apartment and the lease that she shouldn’t have signed. Maybe she’d just been too deep in a relationship that Regina hadn’t wanted. Maybe–

 

“Hey,” Neal says suddenly, “We haven’t seen your apartment yet.” He pulls over a few houses down, and Emma shrugs helplessly, resigned to a few more minutes with company when she really just wants today to end already. 

 

Her apartment is small, nowhere near the comfortable sizes of Regina’s and Neal’s, but it’s nicer than she’d thought she could get, one room with a bed against one wall and a kitchen on the other side. There’s a squashy long seat for a couch between them and a rickety card table to eat at, and she says, “It isn’t much,” pushing the door open. She’d forgotten to lock it, again. Regina had always locked up behind them at her apartment. “It’s just–” 

 

She flicks the lights on, and a chorus of voices call out, “ _ Surprise _ !” 

 

Emma blinks. Beside her, Neal is beaming, and even Tamara is grinning. Her tiny apartment is packed with people– with  _ friends _ , the campaign staff and volunteers and Lost Boys and Mary Margaret and David and a few of the Main Street shopkeepers. “Happy birthday, Em,” Neal says, wrapping her in a half-hug, and Emma stares around at the room and feels as though she might cry right then.

 

Sabine has made a cake, and Granny has put together a whole dinner spread along with it. “We’ve got to keep you well fed,” she says, clapping Emma on the back. “This girl doesn’t go more than three hours during the day without refueling at the diner.” 

 

“I do not!” 

 

“You do,” one of the volunteers says pertly. “I see you sneaking out twice a day to go to the diner.” She considers. “Well, not lately, but–” 

 

Emma mock-sulks and then proves Granny right by virtually inhaling three plates of food. It’s  _ good _ , and she can’t be blamed for that. Or for the fact that she still has an appetite for Sabine’s  _ amazing _ cake. 

 

There isn’t much space in the apartment, and people are arrayed on her bed and on the squashy bench, sitting on the floor and on the kitchen counters. The room is light and loud, full of smiling faces and chatter, and Emma is overwhelmed for a moment just at how many  _ people  _ there are in this room, in this  _ life _ –

 

And all she can think about is the one person who isn’t present. “Did she…does she know about this?” she murmurs to Marian, biting her lip.

 

Marian sighs. “She knows. She had been talking about doing something like this, but then…” She gestures, a little helplessly. “Well, you know. We did what we could without her.” 

 

“Yeah.” Emma clears her throat. “Um,” she starts, and the room quiets down, expectant faces on her. “I’m not…Mulan hasn’t written me a speech,” she says sheepishly, and Mulan rolls her eyes at her. “I just wanted to say that…I don’t even think that I’ve known this many people in my entire life. Until Storybrooke. It’s…this is really…” She swallows, unable to go on, and Neal leads some cheering and then a truly terrible  _ Happy Birthday To You _ .

 

She laughs and wears an awful birthday hat, glimpsing headlights out the window. Without thinking, she’s moving to the window, glancing down into the dark, and she sees that the car in question hasn’t moved.

 

Regina’s car.

 

She ducks out of the apartment for a moment, a plate in hand, slipping away when no one will notice her. Her heart pounds as she walks down the staircase and pushes open the door to outside. The car is parked now, and Regina stands outside her door, staring up at the apartment.

 

She doesn’t notice Emma, eyes fixed on the upstairs window, and Emma walks cautiously to her with the plate still in hand. “It’s chocolate,” Emma says, and Regina startles, jumping back and then relaxing when she sees Emma.

 

Emma holds out the cake again, her heart still thumping. Being around Regina now is an exercise in masochism, in inflicting more pain upon herself. She still doesn’t know what she’d  _ done _ to drive Regina away– what Regina has been thinking in the first place– And still, she’s drawn to Regina even now, desperate to spend even a solitary moment in her presence. “Sabine made it,” she says. “It’s really good.”

 

Regina looks at the cake, then at Emma, her eyes like fathomless depths in the dim night. She doesn’t take it, and Emma says hurriedly, “Look– can we just hold off on the fighting for a little while? I’m…I’m happy right now,” she whispers, and it still feels right to be vulnerable around Regina, to admit the quiet, fearful truths that threaten to consume her sometimes. “I didn’t think I could be again. I just want to be happy for a little while.” 

 

Regina looks away, but not before Emma sees a flash of emotion in her eyes. Emma shuts her eyes, exhausted with today, with this breakup with Regina that has been tearing her apart, with having the first birthday party of her life and not getting to spend it with the woman she–

 

She feels, rather than sees, Regina moving closer, walking alongside the car until she’s right in front of Emma. Emma keeps her eyes closed, as though she’s approaching a spooked forest creature, as though Regina might run if Emma catches her gaze. 

 

She feels Regina nearing, a hand clasping her cheek, and then Regina’s lips are on hers. “Happy birthday, Emma,” she murmurs, and Emma tastes saltwater in the kiss. It’s soft, regretful, and Emma shivers at the touch, at Regina’s fingers tracing her skin and a kiss that never seems to end. Regina’s fingers are on her hip, are slipping something into Emma’s pocket, and Emma is afraid to breathe, afraid to open her eyes and discover that she’s dreaming.

 

Then, loud noises from the stairwell. A crowd of Lost Boys are leaving the party, speaking animatedly as they descend, and Regina springs away from Emma, her eyes chagrined. Emma says, her mind blank but for one single question that escapes her lips. “Why?” she whispers, and Regina flees before Peter and his group make it down the stairs.

 

She’s driving away while Emma watches, her plate of chocolate cake still in hand and a box in her pocket. Emma is dizzy with it, with a kiss that had been, certainly, a mistake on Regina’s part. But Regina still…

 

Regina still kisses Emma like she  _ wants  _ her, and Emma is so tired of this, of a thousand worthless obstacles standing in the way of happiness, of Regina retreating now for reasons she won’t explain. It’d be easier if Regina  _ were  _ the asshole she likes to pretend to be, the woman she paints onto her skin as a disguise. It’d be easier if Emma had been wrong about Regina all along, had only been naive in the face of a far superior liar. Emma is used to being misled, to being taken advantage of, to trusting in vain.

 

But Regina has cried into her skin as she’d kissed her, has come to her birthday and planned only to watch from outside, has never used a single vulnerability that Emma has given her in confidence. Regina is a mystery, and Emma stares at the piece of cake still on her plate and hopes, not for the first time, that Regina has eaten dinner tonight, too.

 

She retreats upstairs, back to an emptying room, and she helps Ruby and Mulan pick up discarded plates and cups from the floor. “You’re going to have to mop, probably,” Aurora says, flitting through the room with a broom and looking at the garbage on the floor in disgust. “What day does your cleaner come?” 

 

Emma stares at her. Ruby snorts. Mulan says briskly, “No cleaner. Just us. Mop?” 

 

“I…don’t have one of those yet,” Emma admits. “I think there was something in the closet?” She ducks her head in and emerges with something that might be a mop, eyeing it dubiously. “Is this for floors?” 

 

“I think it’s for windows,” Sabine says helpfully, pulling on her coat. “Good luck with that.” 

 

She and Jacinda are among the last to leave, and only Ruby, Mulan, Marian, and Aurora are still there when the room is finally clean. Marian and Mulan are absorbed in conversation at the window, and Aurora is sitting on the couch, watching them glumly. “A new love triangle rises,” Ruby mutters to Emma from the kitchen area. “You know, I had the hots for Mulan, too. Maybe I should throw my hat into this ring.” 

 

Emma pokes her. “Stop. I’m still recovering from the last–” She realizes too late that she still isn’t in any shape to joke about her own failed love life, and she leans against the counter, pressing her fingers to her forehead. “Let’s not.”

 

Marian has turned, drawn by anyone in distress, and her brow furrows as she moves to Emma. “Are you feeling all right?” Emma bobs her head. Marian eyes her dubiously, then sighs. “Regina was here earlier, wasn’t she? I thought I saw her car.” 

 

“She didn’t come in.” Emma knows that she’s reddening, and she gulps in a breath and forces a smile. “She just…said happy birthday.” 

 

“Oh, Emma.” Marian slides an arm around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, and Emma trembles with too many repressed tears. “I’m so sorry,” Marian murmurs, and Emma can feel the tears start to fall, a terrible, strangled sob emerging with them. 

 

“Sorry.” Emma scrambles away, humiliated. “I’m sorry. I don’t– I don’t want to put anyone in this position where they’d– where we’d–” She’s avoided talking about Regina even in her conferences with Neal and Tamara, uncomfortable with forcing friends to talk about another friend. She represses just fine, except when it’s Regina’s closest friend she’s sitting with, all compassionate eyes and gentle words, and then she’s lost again. “I’m sorry,” she says again.

 

Ruby sighs. “Emma, we aren’t going to  _ choose  _ one of you. You’re both our friends, and she’s being an idiot right now. I don’t know what she’s trying to accomplish here, but this isn’t the way–” 

 

“She?” Aurora says curiously, drawn to them as Mulan shifts closer. “I thought you broke up with Neal. Who’s the mystery woman?” 

 

“Not like that. The candidate. Who fired me,” Emma says, which is easier than explaining any of the rest and outing Regina. “For some obviously fake reason that she’s still standing behind–” 

 

Aurora nods knowingly. “Regina’s a tough cookie,” she says. “I think–” She stops herself. “Well, if she hasn’t told you, then maybe not.” 

 

Emma leans forward. “What?” 

 

Aurora shrugs. “It’s nothing. But she’s always seemed very fond of you. I’m sure she’s just…being Regina Mills.” 

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Emma demands. Mulan puts a hand on her arm. “No,” Emma says as Aurora shrugs again. “What are you talking about?” 

 

Aurora looks embarrassed. “Sorry. I know she’s your candidate and you have to support her, but I  _ did _ run a campaign opposite hers. She’s kind of…offputting, you know? Moody. She’d rather scare people into submission than inspire them to follow her, and she’s been known to…well, dramatically decide she hates a friend out of nowhere.” 

 

Marian clears her throat. Mulan looks deeply uncomfortable. Emma remembers, suddenly, that Aurora has spent plenty of time with Mary Margaret, who has taken some time to grasp exactly what she’d done to Regina. “You don’t know her,” she bites out, irritated and angry. “She absolutely  _ does  _ inspire followers. You think she’s a match for Jones because she’s  _ scared  _ people? They follow her because they  _ like _ her. Because they believe in her. And Mary Margaret Blanchard could  _ never  _ even compete in this race, so don’t even  _ try _ –” 

 

She’s jabbing a finger at Aurora, and Aurora scurries back, alarmed. “Okay. I get it, okay? Regina’s a hero. A champion of the masses. An angel in human form.” Emma glowers at her, and Aurora holds up a defensive hand. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were, like, in love with her.” 

 

Emma can feel the blood draining out of her face, the way her throat seems to close up and she can’t respond. Mulan says abruptly, “Let’s  _ go _ , Aurora,” and Aurora huffs and looks ashamed, following Mulan obediently from the apartment and leaving only Marian and Ruby there. 

 

Marian says, “Emma?” and Emma leans back against the counter, very still, very overwhelmed.

 

“She’s processing,” Ruby says in an undertone. “Emma, do you want us here?” Emma barely manages to shake her her. “We should go, too.” She pats Emma on the back. “Don’t do anything stupid tonight, okay?” A kiss to her cheek, a second one to her temple, and Marian and Ruby are off, leaving Emma alone in her bright, newly clean apartment.

 

_ I didn’t realize you were, like, in love with her _ .

 

In…love?

 

Emma has never been in love before now. Maybe that’s how she’s missed the signs, avoided the facts and been overwhelmed even just at the thought of  _ feelings _ . Maybe that’s why a snide comment from Mulan’s latest crush is what had set her  _ off _ , had left her trembling against the kitchen counter as she grapples with  _ whatever  _ that comment had been.

 

Because she doesn’t  _ do  _ in love. She isn’t the kind of person who falls in love, who attaches herself emotionally to someone who can toss her aside. She  _ cares _ about Regina– could see a future with her, is devoted to her to maybe an unhealthy extreme, feels most at peace when she’s sitting with her while fighting for a cause or even just watching TV or talking–

 

“Fuck,” she says aloud. “ _ Fuck _ !” She twists around, grasping for the closest object she can find. It’s a toaster, left behind by the last tenant and still unplugged, and she slams an arm across the counter and sends it crashing to the ground. 

 

She gives it a kick, hard enough that it flies across the room and under the bed, and she hops for a moment in blinding agony as she clutches onto her foot and the big toe she’d banged with the kick. “Ow,” she mutters. “Ow,  _ ow _ –” There are tears in her eyes from the pain, and she blinks them away helplessly as she hops toward the bed, her toe still aching and the tears streaming past her attempt to stop them until she’s curled onto her bed in the fetal position, her body wracked with sobs.

 

There is a bump against her side, the weight in her pocket that Regina had left inside, and she pulls out a little jewelry box, a birthday gift that Regina has decided to grant to her despite everything. It’s a bracelet, this one without the snowflake but with a charm dangling from it. It looks like a tiny ballot, which is  _ ridiculous  _ and clearly custom made, because who in the world would commission a tiny ballot charm for a girlfriend but Regina–

 

She lets out another strangled cry, squeezing the bracelet between her fingers.

 

Until now, it had been easy to just…pretend, really, to look at this situation like it’s only a challenge to overcome. So Regina has cut her off. She’ll be damned if she lets Regina bully her away from the campaign, from believing in Regina–

 

She’s an  _ idiot _ , and she’s so hopelessly in love with Regina Mills that it consumes her from her swelling toe to her burning eyes, from the way her heart is racing and she feels as though she might never breathe easily again. She’s in  _ love _ , has peeled away every protective layer around her heart and has let Regina in, and Regina has cast her aside. 

 

Regina doesn’t love her back. 

 

It’s been twenty-three years since she’d been left on the side of a freeway somewhere not far from here, Nowhere, Maine. And in twenty-three years, she’s never once learned her lesson about what happens when she gets attached, about what happens when she lays her heart out, vulnerable, and passes it to someone new.

 

She cries into her pillow, feeling heartbreak where before she’d only been determined. Regina doesn’t  _ want  _ her, and Emma needs her more than she does anyone else in existence. Emma can’t picture the world without Regina by her side, and she doesn’t want to know what the world looks like without her. 

 

She’s strong. She can fight through anything, has survived more than most people twice her age, and yet, this feels poised to break her. Regina is  _ everything _ , and Emma has nothing now, nothing but memories that feel like walking through shards of glass. Regina has rejected her, and Emma feels broken, suddenly, torn to shreds and left to repair herself alone. Loving Regina has made her someone  _ good _ , someone who fights for their cause and who opens herself up to friends and who tries to plant roots into the soil because she wants to–

 

–and now, without Regina, she only feels hopeless and very, very lost.

 

* * *

 

There is something different about Emma the next day, something about the slump to her shoulders when she walks in late that has Regina on edge. Regina has already seized on her absence this morning to install another volunteer at Emma’s cubicle, and Emma walks to her cubicle, hesitates, and then takes the printout of phone numbers from it and sinks to the floor with her phone.

 

Regina watches her from the back of the office, and it takes all she is to curl her lips into a sneer. “Why do we have a volunteer on phone calls?” she demands, stalking through the office, and Emma looks up wearily at her.

 

Regina had shown her hand last night, had seen Emma in the dark and had been so overwhelmed with wanting that she’d kissed her in plain sight, had made it clear exactly how deeply she yearns for her. Today, she’d grimly decided, she needs to undo that damage. “Stuff envelopes,” she orders. “We have a mailer going out  _ today _ .” 

 

Emma looks up at her, her face pale and her eyes dull, and she reaches for one of the boxes of letters to fold. Regina stares at her, her heart thrumming with worry, and she bites out, “We need all our support staff on the ball. We have  _ two weeks  _ to the campaign. What the hell are you–” 

 

“Regina.” It’s Marian who speaks, and Regina looks past the hostile eyes of her friends and finds her best friend leaning against the wall, watching her with a hard gaze. “Enough.” 

 

That’s  _ it _ , the rejection that will send Regina over the edge. Mother had been right to sow these seeds, to find the one thing that would tear the group apart. The others are protective of Emma, have taken her in and adopted her as one of their own, and Regina is being needlessly cruel to her, is falling into old pre-Emma habits that had only been met with bemusement by her friends in the past.

 

Now, they expect better of her. She expects better of  _ herself _ , and she turns abruptly, stalking back past Marian and into her office, slamming the door behind her. She  _ hates _ this, hates being this person, hates losing Emma and hurting her for it. 

 

It’s better this way, she reminds herself. Mother will hurt Emma worse, will hold every piece of her past and present over her head for as long as Emma is here and useful to Regina, and Regina is only trying to get her  _ away  _ so Mother will have no reason to do so. Regina is doing this for Emma’s own good, even if it’s killing her.

 

She’s pretty sure that last night had been the very first birthday party that Emma has ever had in her adult years, the first time she’s had this many people to celebrate her, and Regina had missed it. Regina buries her head in her hands, blinking away frustrated tears at another moment with Emma missed, another chance to give her something she  _ deserves  _ and Regina hadn’t been the one to do it. 

 

Regina is never going to be the one to do it again.

 

She looks up when the door opens, fully prepared to tell off Marian for pushing, but it isn’t Marian who slips inside and shuts the door behind her. It’s Emma, and Regina’s mind goes blissfully blank at the sight of her. 

 

She still looks dull-eyed, vulnerable in a way that Regina hasn’t seen her since after the news about Portland had broken, and Regina yearns only to draw her into her arms. Instead, she says coldly, “What do you want?” 

 

Emma’s fingers twist together in front of her, and she looks at Regina with such quiet agony that Regina is shaken by it. Something had happened overnight to tear the determination from Emma, to remove the fire from her eyes, and she says, her voice more like an echo, “What did I do?”

 

Regina stares at her, a lump in her throat. “Excuse me?” 

 

Emma shakes her head. “I…what did I do wrong, Regina?” she asks, her voice low and beseeching. “How did I lose you? Because I keep going over all of it in my head, and I–” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I don’t know. There are so many things I might have…” Her eyes are open again, raw and red. “Did I move too quickly? Did I push too hard? Was it…was it the rule I made about the apartment or the lease or–” 

 

“Emma,” Regina says, horrified. Emma stares at her, bobbing on the balls of her feet, waiting, and Regina has no words in response. This is where she administers the killing blow– the final onslaught that will get Emma to run. This is where she can pick apart every one of their interactions and point an accusing finger at Emma and finally drive her away. 

 

Emma is vulnerable right now, is hurting so clearly that it would only take a few well-placed jabs to get rid of her for good, to save her from Mother. It’s the smart thing to do. It’s what she  _ should _ do, what Mother has taught her to do a thousand times before. And yet–

 

Regina clears her throat. “It wasn’t anything you did,” she says, and Emma shakes her head in denial, stares at her in disbelief. “It  _ wasn’t _ ,” she insists. “I just…I didn’t want to be with you. I’m sorry.” Emma doesn’t budge. “You’re not my type,” Regina tries. “I…I guess I was attracted to you when we were fighting all the time, but after–” She grows more comfortable in the lie. “Once we were together and the fight was gone, I just wasn’t interested anymore.” 

 

Emma shakes her head, unconvinced. “That’s…you’re not…”

 

“Don’t you think there’s a reason why I’ve never been in a real relationship before?” Regina persists, aching through her bones. “Why we only really kissed once we were at odds? Why I– last night–” She can’t finish the sentence, and Emma’s eyes glimmer, the first hint of fire in them today.

 

“Nice try,” she says, and she leans forward, brow furrowed as she studies Regina. “I might not be the best judge of character, but with you, Regina, I always know when you’re lying. And you’re lying right now. I don’t– maybe it’s just wishful thinking,” she whispers, uncertain again, and Regina wants to cry out in denial right now. “But you can’t possibly–” 

 

“You can justify it however you want,” Regina says, and she can’t  _ be  _ in here anymore, can’t keep talking to Emma without the truth spilling out of her. She stalks past Emma, shoving the door open. “I’m done. No more talking.” 

 

The others still look at her warily, their eyes narrowed as she walks past them and out the door, gulping in fresh air and struggling not to cry with sheer frustration. Coffee. She needs coffee. She hurries down the block toward Granny’s when there’s a voice behind her. “Tell me what’s going  _ on _ ,” Emma says, her voice carrying in the wind. “Tell me why you won’t– I’m trying to understand, but I  _ can’t _ . I don’t know how we go from…from how we were to this, and I know it must be my fault somehow, but–”

 

“Emma,  _ please _ ,” Regina says, spinning around. “Just leave. Go away from this campaign. From this town. From me. I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

Emma laughs, harsh and loud. “Too late,” she says darkly. “I’m not going anywhere. Not until this campaign is done.” 

 

She’s so damned  _ stubborn _ . Regina takes a step forward, frustration and irritation mingling until her voice is low and menacing. “I will make you regret it if you don’t,” she says icily. “I will make you wish you’d never come to Storybrooke. I will–” 

 

“Fuck off, Regina,” Emma says, and now she looks angry, her energy returned at last. Regina is relieved and despairing. “You know what? I  _ like  _ Storybrooke. I like my friends, I like this campaign, and I like the plans I have here for my future. And I like the person I am here– and I’m not leaving. I don’t care what  _ idiotic  _ reason you have for pushing me away. You can’t make me go.” 

 

She turns on her heel and storms away, back toward the campaign headquarters, a Regina Mills bumper sticker stuck to the back of her jeans. Regina watches her, fragile and weary, and she senses a presence behind her but doesn’t turn to look at who she knows is lurking. 

 

“I suppose that will have to be sufficient for now,” Mother says, and Regina refuses to respond. “I see the shopkeepers have filed an official complaint on their rent hike. You really are an impudent, ungrateful little brat, aren’t you?” 

 

“I broke up with Emma,” Regina says dully. “I kicked her off the campaign. Is that what you wanted?” Mother, she finds, has plans within plans within plans. If Regina had caved to her blackmail, Mother would have won. Regina has instead crippled her own campaign, and Mother has won yet again.

 

Mother’s hand lands on Regina’s shoulder, almost friendly, if not for the way her fingers tighten at the back of Regina’s neck. It startles up a childhood memory, Mother’s fingers on her throat so tightly that Regina had blacked out, and then a week spent at home in her room until the purpled marks had disappeared. 

 

She had been nine, and had been impudent then, too. “I want you, my dear, to learn what happens when you cross your mother,” Mother says, her voice velvety soft. “And when your life is in ruins…when you have nothing left but me…when you regret every decision that brought you to this moment…” Her fingers pinch into Regina’s neck, and Regina shakes, her traitorous legs wobbling beneath her. “ _ Then _ , you can come back groveling to me.” 

 

She lets Regina go. Regina stumbles forward, and Mother gives a charming smile to curious passersby.

 

Regina smiles, too, through shooting pains in her neck. Let Mother  _ try _ . Mother is out of cards to use against her, and they both know it. Mother is only making these threats because she’s desperate.

 

Because Regina is going to win.

 

* * *

 

“How are you holding up?” Tamara murmurs. They’re walking to their lunch break, which Regina hasn’t seen fit to be obnoxious about today. Somehow, whatever had gone on between them earlier has left Emma invigorated, ready for a new fight. There’s nothing like fighting with Regina to wake Emma up from a slump.

 

But Regina hasn’t engaged, has been distracted in the office ever since. She’s been massaging the back of her neck and talking on the phone with townspeople for hours, reviewing notes with Neal for the final debate scheduled for the Friday before the election and just generally ignoring Emma. 

 

Emma watches her, struggling to piece together the mystery that is Regina Mills, and Tamara has to pull her away for lunch. “You have to eat,” she’d said. “You  _ always  _ have to eat,” and then she’d asked the question that Emma is still contemplating.

 

“I’m fine,” she says finally. “How are you?”

 

Tamara gives her a look. “It’s okay to tell me the truth,” she says. “I’m not going to go feed it to Gold.” 

 

Emma rolls her eyes. “It’s fine. I don’t need any white knights. Regina is…I don’t really know what Regina’s doing,” she admits. “But she needs the team fighting for her right now. Not some little…squabble alienating people.” 

 

Tamara shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re  _ still  _ advocating for her,” she says. “I’d have…well, we’re very different people,” she says finally. “You’re good kids. Both of you. I hope you work it out.” She leads the way into the bakery, where they pick up two croissants and some coffee for lunch. “My treat,” Tamara tells Sabine’s assistant. “Emma’s jobless right now.” She drops a five into the tip jar and wanders off.

 

Emma stares at her. “You’re jobless right now, too,” she points out. “The campaign is paying your old firm, aren’t they? Have you stopped those payments?” 

 

Tamara shrugs. “I didn’t think it was a good idea to call attention to it,” she says. “I’ll be fine. I have some money saved up, and I can always…find a new line of work where everyone involved isn’t afraid of Cora Mills.” She says it ruefully, guiding Emma to the park.

 

They sit together on one of the benches overlooking the lake, eating their croissants in silence, and Tamara says abruptly, “About Gold–” 

 

“Shouldn’t Neal be here?” 

 

Tamara shakes her head. “Neal is…well, you know Neal. He cares a lot, and he won’t do anything to actively hurt a friend.” She sighs. “So he’s just kind of floundering right now. He’s under the impression that his father might come after me if we turn him down.” 

 

Emma watches her for a moment, and Tamara says, irritably, “What?” 

 

“It’s just…” Emma shrugs. “You started this to help Regina. But Neal’s still in this for your sake, too. I’ve never seen him fight for someone like he does the two of you.” He’d been happy to run off in Portland when his father had given him an out, had jumped out of a tight situation and left her behind. Here, he lingers where he feels trapped– and with his father, no less– for Tamara’s sake and for Regina’s. 

 

It’s a relief, knowing that there are people Neal cares for more than he had her. A history together isn’t enough to sustain a relationship, and even now that Regina has pushed her away, she’s only happy to know that Neal’s heart is elsewhere. 

 

Tamara gives her a look. “How about we  _ not  _ do this again?” she says, leaning back against the bench. “My point is…I don’t know. I like you,” she says finally. “I really do. I’m sorry I’ve been on edge around you. It’s been a rough time.” 

 

“Don’t I know it.” Emma sips at her coffee, swallowing and then exhaling again. “You did make sure I didn’t  _ die  _ the other day,” she says. “I think it kind of evened things out.” 

 

Tamara snorts. “Still,” she says, and she grows serious. “I do stand behind what I said about there being some things that have to be done, whether or not Regina approves of them. But this was…” She stares into the lake. “We screwed up. Feels like no matter what we do, the campaign is going to be in trouble.” 

 

“Yeah.” Emma watches her, the miserable tilt to her brow and the quiet despair, and she is caught as well, trapped in indecision. Gold had given them five days to accept his offer. They have four remaining before he takes action, four remaining days to decide what they’re going to do. If they accept his offer, they win the election, albeit for a price. If they reject it, Gold will be unpredictable, and that’s the last thing that the campaign needs.

 

“I trust you,” Tamara murmurs. “You’re right. We have to fight this the way that Regina would want it. And I’ll follow your lead. You know her better than anyone by now.” She smiles humorlessly. “Much as Regina might deny that.”

 

Emma shrugs, unsmiling. “I don’t know if I do,” she says miserably, and Tamara leans over, sliding an arm around her shoulders. “I thought– I thought a lot of things I was wrong about, so…”

 

Her voice trails off as she spots Mulan, across the lake, talking with Aurora. Aurora reminds her again of exactly how  _ uselessly  _ in love with Regina she is, and she lowers her gaze as soon as they spot her. “Love is fake,” Emma mutters glumly. 

 

“Fuck yeah it is,” Tamara agrees, patting her shoulder. “Campaign romances are like that, though. They burn fast and hard and are doomed from the start. It’s all that time together in close quarters under the wire. You catch feelings and then you’re fucking and then suddenly you hate each other–” 

 

“We don’t hate each other,” Emma says, offended. “We weren’t  _ doomed _ , either. It was the best– the best weeks of my  _ life _ . It wasn’t some…some pathetic little campaign fling. We were–” 

 

Tamara is watching her knowingly, a little smirk at her lips. “Love is fake, huh?” Emma scowls at her. Tamara squeezes her shoulder. “Look, I know Regina’s being an ice queen right now, but she– we all  _ know _ she has–” 

 

“Hi,” Aurora says, cutting her off. “Uh…sorry to interrupt.” She’s come around the side of the lake, leaving Mulan behind, and she gives them an awkward smile. “I just felt like I was kind of out of line yesterday.” 

 

Emma doesn’t smile back. “Mulan yelled at you, huh?”  

 

Aurora bites her lip. “Little bit, yeah,” she admits. “But still. I might have some pent-up resentment toward Regina over the primaries.” 

 

This is not the way for her to endear herself to Emma. “We won because we were the better campaign,” Emma points out. “We actually did outreach and made events while you were banking on Mary Margaret’s–” 

 

Aurora holds up a hand. “I know, okay? It’s not that. It’s…” She sighs. “Look, I guess you don’t know about Primary Day, huh?” Emma stares at her, baffled. “Cora Mills…when it became clear that people were taking you guys seriously, she made me this offer. A few of them. First it was just making a few calls and setting up a debate with Anna and Hans, which we knew Mary Margaret would win easily. Engineering that outburst before the debate. Then some other connections I didn’t think we could get. Then…” 

 

She wraps her arms around herself. “I don’t know. It got messy. I stole your phone,” she says suddenly, and Emma stares at her. “Broke into my own office. Framed you guys. I didn’t want to, but I didn’t think I had a choice. Cora had plenty of dirt on me and Mary Margaret. If I stopped playing along…” She shivers. 

 

“You were the one who framed us on Primary Day?” Emma is still stuck on that, remembering Aurora glaring at Regina and her from the sidewalk in front of the campaign. She’s a better actress than Emma had expected. “Regina’s going to  _ kill _ you.” 

 

Mulan tenses from where she’s approaching. Aurora says, “She knows.” She bites her lip again. “I found out after,” she says. “I was just a warmup for the real event. Cora sold me out, sent pictures to Regina and invited her to expose me.” 

 

Tamara leans forward, eyes narrowing. “For a price.” 

 

“There’s always a price,” Aurora murmurs. “I don’t know what Regina’s was. I just know that I was supposed to be tossed under the bus for it.” 

 

Gold and Cora play the same games, fight battles too similarly for it to be a coincidence. Emma puts it together, remembers a moment on Primary Day with Regina when she’d been cradling a flash drive and had looked to Emma for some sort of guidance. Regina had been given the option. Regina had turned it down. “We were losing then,” Emma says, her mouth dry. “We were going to lose the whole thing before the Lost Boys and…and all the outreach that day. And Regina didn’t take Cora’s offer.”

 

Of course she hadn’t. Of  _ course  _ she never would have, because Regina has spent a decade struggling to be anything but her mother. Regina won’t play with Cora, and she wouldn’t play with Gold, either, no matter the consequences.

 

Aurora makes a face. “She’s a better person than I am,” she admits. “I guess I was kind of a bitch about it last night. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” Mulan hovers, looking very pleased with Aurora. Emma throws her a wink that has Mulan’s cheeks flaming, and Aurora says, “I just wanted to clear that up. I really am rooting for her, you know?” She falls into step with Mulan, gazing up at her, bright-eyed, and Mulan flushes again. “And I can help. I know Cora’s playbook by now. She’ll have full-fledged dossiers on each of you, and if she can use them–” She blinks at Emma. “She already had one on you, actually.” 

 

“That’s a hundred pages of release forms for every time I got drunk in Tallahassee,” Emma says dryly. “I’ll live.” 

 

Mulan is tugging Aurora away, a hand on hers, and Aurora says, “Well, that, but also–” 

 

“Let’s go to lunch,” Mulan says firmly. “We can talk about the rest of it when we aren’t in the middle of a public park.” 

 

Aurora follows obediently, their hands swinging together and their eyes meeting as they walk. It’s  _ cute _ , in a puppy love kind of way. Emma, who is still pretty heavily on the  _ love is fake  _ train, grimaces at it and then turns back to Tamara.

 

Tamara heaves a sigh. “Guess you know Regina better than you thought,” she murmurs. 

 

“Yeah.” Emma stares out at the lake, and she can feel a new weariness settle over her skin. “Gold is going to destroy her. Do we really– maybe we should talk to her–”

 

“We’re not putting this decision in her hands,” Tamara says firmly. “I didn’t want it in your hands, either,” she reminds Emma. “I didn’t want it to weigh on anyone’s conscience but mine and Neal’s. But especially not Regina’s.” 

 

“Yeah,” Emma says again, and she leans back, thinking of Regina’s desperate face when she’d pleaded with Emma to  _ leave _ , to let her and the campaign go. Regina wants to hate her. Regina already might hate her a little bit. 

 

Regina will certainly hate her when she finds out the decision that Emma’s about to make. “Let’s go,” she murmurs. “Let’s talk to Gold.” 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya!!! Thank you for all the feedback and support, I super appreciate it!! We're almost THERE, I'll see you for the grand finale (and epilogue!!) next week!!! Enjoy!!

**OCTOBER 28**

_ 8 Days Until the General Election _

 

When Cora strikes, it’s as swift as a snake. They blink, and there’s a media storm. They turn, and a new revelation is about to destroy them. Cora never hesitates, never gives them a moment to breathe, moves from merciless onslaught to merciless onslaught. 

 

Gold moves very differently. Emma goes back to her lonely apartment that night after rejecting Gold’s offer and does nothing but obsessively check the political blogs, cycling between them and searching Twitter for any sign of Gold’s handiwork. She spends too many hours with her eyes lingering on Regina’s picture as she Googles her, waiting for new results.

 

There is nothing, and nothing for the days that follow. Maybe Gold had been bluffing, and his roar of indignation will be more of a whimper, nothing even worth warning Regina about. Regina is absorbed in debate prep again, so preoccupied that she doesn’t even take much time to send snide jabs Emma’s way. Emma watches her, feels her heart break anew each time Regina glances her way, and she feels more and more lonely in a crowded office filled with friends.

 

Sometimes, Regina smiles, but it’s become a rare occurrence. She barks out orders and then, meek and regretful, repeats them in milder tones. She fights with Neal as though he really is Killian Jones, and her stress makes her acerbic, makes her push everyone away instead of just Emma.

 

It’s kind of a relief, not to be the only one. Emma drinks in those rare smiles of Regina’s, catches her eye and sees warmth that is quickly iced over. She smiles back anyway, watching Regina’s gaze turn soft and wistful, and it steals Emma’s breath away.

 

Then she turns back to her phone to refresh the political blogs again, dreading the inevitable.

 

* * *

 

The days settle into an odd monotony in the weeks before the election. There are no more events, not beyond the debate on the Friday before Election Day, and there is little to do beyond making phone calls and preparing for the debate. Regina settles into a simple routine, a day-in-day-out that’s so mundane that it becomes almost comforting. 

 

She wakes up in a quiet room, curls up around her pillow and wills herself not to cry at Emma’s absence. Being without Emma is beginning to feel like the norm again, and she is nauseous when she realizes it, misses Emma even more desperately to make up for it. She showers alone and finds that she has little interest in eating breakfast alone anymore, and so she goes to Granny’s for coffee and breakfast.

 

At Granny’s, she talks to voters. There are always some regulars, but others drift to her table, each with another gripe or question about what she can do for them. She’s growing more comfortable with it, with chatting with them and sorting out solutions for every situation. She’s always been good at math, at piecing together problems and finding the perfect solution, and this is all that is. She’s  _ good _ at this, could be good at being mayor, and she’s startled by that realization. 

 

She’s always known that she has a vision for the town, that she’d wanted to undo her mother’s damage, but only now is she beginning to believe that she might also be a good mayor. The people listen to her–  _ trust _ her, and she’s beginning to feel a protectiveness over them that comes with  _ my town, my people _ . The people might actually  _ like _ her, and she glows with it, with the knowledge that this really is what she was born to do.

 

She wishes she could tell Emma. It feels overly self-indulgent to express it to anyone else, even Neal or Marian or Jacinda, and Emma would understand it, knows those same insecurities that come with a lifetime of being rejected and alone and not good enough. But instead, she strides past Emma every morning, who is perched at her old cubicle and speaking animatedly to voters, and Regina’s heart aches.

 

The afternoons are for debate prep, but the morning is spent on the phone or, occasionally, trekking out to public places to chat with voters there. Even when she’s out, Ruby comes in once she’s back every day without fail, bringing Regina lunch, and Regina pretends that she doesn’t know that Emma is the one who’s calling her in. 

 

Emma is always  _ there _ , hovering at the edges of Regina’s peripheral vision, being helpful and supportive and an energetic presence in a campaign office that is growing more and more harried as the days go on. Sometimes, Regina can’t believe how  _ obtuse  _ she’d been, believing that Emma might leave her if she’d pushed too hard. Emma isn’t going anywhere, no matter what Regina might say, and it’s a quiet comfort during work hours that becomes a gnawing hole after them.

 

She still doesn’t do work in her apartment. It feels like breaking a promise to Emma if she does, like betraying their relationship even after she’d terminated it. Instead, she lies in bed again and scrolls through old messages between them, glances through pictures on their campaign website just to glimpse Emma in the corners, full of life and love and fire. 

 

Sometimes, Emma still looks at her, still gives her that sunshine smile with challenge glinting at the edges of it again, and she can’t quite glower quickly enough. It’s  _ Emma _ , and their breakup has only hammered home just how desperately Regina loves her. 

 

The election is almost here. After that, perhaps, Mother might have no more use for her information on Emma, and then…

 

_ No _ . Mother is going to fight every reform she makes along the way, is going to use and abuse Emma in all the ways that she has Regina, but Regina still dreams of tearful apologies, of holding Emma in her arms, of tasting her one more time. Mother will weaponize Emma for as long as Emma is important to Regina, and Emma will always be important to Regina.

 

Maybe Emma will take David’s offer and be sheriff one day, after David finally takes his retirement in a few years. Regina toys with that image, of Emma the sheriff and Regina the mayor, forced to interact even with the bitterness between them of a relationship over too soon. Regina gets lost in the fantasy, in arguments and meetings that are so hostile that the tension nearly cracks, that end with Regina up against the cell in the sheriff’s station or Emma on the desk in the mayor’s office–

 

She wakes up the next morning panting, breathless and desperate for release.

 

It’s a long shower that follows that, and she walks blearily to Granny’s, craving coffee. There are murmurs in the street as she walks past, and she forces her widest smile, greeting shoppers on Main Street with a pleasant, “Good morning.” 

 

Surprisingly, most don’t respond, just brush past her as though they haven’t heard her speak. Regina blinks, a little discomfited, and walks onward toward Granny’s. Maybe she just needs coffee. 

 

She pushes the door open and sees faces turn to see who’s entered. Smiling, she catches some eyes and walks inside. Her gaze is met by hostile faces, and she swallows, glancing around, recognizing one of the regulars and walking to him. “Do I have something on my face?” she says jokingly.

 

He meets her eyes, his lip curling, and he says, “Your own  _ shit _ , maybe.” 

 

She stumbles backwards, hears a few snorts in response, and twists around. Behind the counter, Ruby’s eyes are narrowing at her clientele. The others are watching Regina, unimpressed, and Regina swallows and sees, for the first time, the sign slapped against the gate outside, just outside of what is legally Granny’s property. 

 

**_REGINA MILLS_ ** , it reads, a picture of her artificially touched up so that long, ominous shadows rest across it.  **_STUDENT. POLITICIAN. SNAKE._ ** She blinks. She’d expected some kind of attack by now, as the election looms close, but this is underwhelming. “What did my mother do now?” she sighs.

 

“You tell us,” says another unfriendly voice, and Regina whirls around, meets more hostile gazes, a pit in her stomach. 

 

Ruby clears her throat. “Regina,” she says, and she glares at the customers around her. “Come here.” 

 

She waves Regina behind the counter, holding up her phone, and she says, “This broke sometime this morning. And the signs were everywhere.” She’s on a news site, one of the ones that Regina has gotten lax in checking first thing, now that her breakfast is at Granny’s, and she hits play on a video.

 

It opens with the same picture of Regina, the words slamming onto the screen.  **_STUDENT. POLITICIAN. SNAKE_ ** **.** And then, a familiar voice. “We need another favor for Regina,” Neal says, coming into focus. The video is from an odd angle, security camera footage.

 

Opposite him, Gold, smiling coolly at Neal. “I know you’ll do whatever it takes,” he says, and Regina stares open-mouthed as more scenes roll out, of Neal, of Tamara, of  _ Emma _ , flashing to each member of their campaign as a voiceover speaks.

 

“Regina Mills claims to be a candidate for the people,” the voiceover says, and then Regina herself is onscreen.

 

She’s standing in Gold’s office, leaning in as she speaks to him, her voice cool and distant. “I want it plastered across the Internet,” she’s saying. “I want her  _ destroyed _ . Use every tool at your disposal.”

 

Gold nods slowly. “We have a deal.” 

 

Regina recognizes the interaction with a sinking feeling. She’s younger in the image, though she doubts that anyone watching will know that.  _ Yes _ , she’d made deals with Gold for a mutually beneficial goal. They’d both wanted to punish the girls who had left Neal’s life in upheaval, a trio of blonde girlfriends who had had to  _ pay _ . She hadn’t thought anything of it until she’d met his latest blonde. 

 

Now, she’s paying for her fury. “Regina Mills is as much a candidate of the people as her mother, Cora Mills,” the voiceover continues, and there’s Mother at the dinner table, the “ _ I wouldn’t tell the shopkeepers that you’ve saved them just yet _ ,” followed by an “ _ Of course not _ ,” that could have been from any other identical interaction that they’ve had over the years. 

 

The video goes on, detailing damning information about money transfers, about something that the cameras imply is… _ blackmail _ ?, about them all skulking around and too many deals with Gold and Mother that can’t possibly be real. “Regina Mills is a product of Cora Mills’s destructive plans for Storybrooke,” the voiceover drones on. “Regina Mills isn’t one of us. Regina Mills wants power at any cost, and she’s using each of Storybrooke’s trusting citizens to get it.  _ This  _ is a Regina Mills campaign.” It’s Tamara, shaking Gold’s hand. It’s Mother with her arm around Regina’s back, smiling at someone the camera doesn’t show. 

 

“Take a stand against Mills corruption,” the voiceover finishes. “Stay home on Election Day.” The screen goes dark, leaving Regina staring, blankly, two dozen cold eyes on her.

 

She’d foolishly thought, for a long time, that she has no weaknesses beyond her sexuality. But she’s always had one, had been born to one, had been raised forever in her shadow.

 

Mother has finally used it.

 

* * *

 

By the time an hour has passed, Regina is sitting stiffly on a bed in one of Granny’s spare rooms and watching the video over and over again, taking it apart with mechanical precision as she breaks it down to fact, fact, fact.

 

_ Fact _ , some of these scenes can’t be doctored. Some of this is  _ real _ , and some of her  _ idiot  _ friends have actually sought out assistance from Gold during the election.

 

_ Fact _ , the others are clearly doctored, and she can prove them as such if she gets access to the security cameras in the mansion. 

 

_ Fact,  _ this was a collaborative effort. There are elements to it that Gold wouldn’t have known to find. There are also elements that Mother wouldn’t have had access to. Unsurprisingly, Gold and Mother are working together on this. 

 

_ Fact, _ the Internet is taking a dim view of her  _ inevitable sellout _ . She’s gone from golden girl of progressive parties to a shill overnight, a dozen thinkpieces written about supporting attractive-sounding narratives without checking out their campaigns.  _ We were wrong to root for Regina Mills _ , says the personal Twitter account of one of the leaders of the MAF.  _ Mary Margaret Blanchard was always our choice for Storybrooke mayor. We urge the citizens of Storybrooke to write in– _

 

Regina hurls the phone to the floor, breathing hard.

 

The people of Storybrooke have rejected her. The good press from outside Storybrooke has, as well. They’ve weathered other crises, personal issues that were set aside or reframed until they could move past them. Emma and Neal in Portland. Robin. They had seemed dire at the time, but the campaign had gotten through them.

 

But  _ this _ – this is a referendum on her very  _ cause _ within this campaign. She has put herself on display as her mother’s most equipped enemy, and Mother has instead attached herself to Regina, has invalidated every single battle that Regina has fought. They can’t replace Regina on a campaign that has been so utterly hers. And the people will never believe in her again– not with one week to go to the campaign to change their minds.

 

She stands, takes a breath, and steps out of the room to go face the world outside.

 

It’s a smaller crowd at Granny’s now, but they watch her with equally cold eyes, equally betrayed. She doesn’t try to smile this time, only folds her arms together in front of her and walks outside the diner. The sign that had been opposite it has been taken down, crumpled into a ball on the floor, but there are others. Some are displayed on the windows of shops that she’s gone to since she was a child. In others, she sees shopkeepers she’d spoken to about revitalizing Storybrooke small business, and they glower coldly at her. 

 

She ducks her head down in the wind and walks faster to the campaign headquarters, shivering. 

 

When she steps inside, the office is quiet, and Regina wonders, for a frozen moment, if she’s lost her team, too. But  _ no _ , they’re all here. Jacinda and Sabine are bent over what looks like the attack video, separating frames and comparing images. Marian and Neal are reviewing her debate prep in the back of the room. Mulan is typing a memo, Tamara is on hold on the phone, and Emma sits at her desk, flipping through their lists of phone numbers with a pale, drawn face.

 

And on the floor in their corner at the front are a slew of volunteers, all their regulars arrayed around another box of mailers. They look up at her with fierce loyalty, and Regina takes in a shuddering breath and forces her voice to sound calm. “Thank you all for coming,” she says. “It…it’s much appreciated.” 

 

“What, give up a week before the campaign?” Merida scoffs. 

 

“Your mom must really think you’re gonna win,” Gwen says, grinning up at her. 

 

Tiny pumps a fist. “Until the bitter end,” he announces, and the others echo him. Regina is gripped with the sudden urge to sob.

 

Instead, she turns expectantly to her team. “Some of the video was doctored, some is legitimate. What can we do about that?” 

 

“I’m working on a statement,” Mulan says. “Jacinda thinks she’s found some evidence to prove that that bit with you and Cora is off–”

 

Neal shakes his head. “It’s an attack ad,” he says. “We knew one of those was going to come eventually. We’re best off ignoring it and moving on with the debate.” 

 

“No, we’re not.” Tamara hangs up the phone. “We need to talk about damage control.” She looks grim. They all look grim, except for Neal, who is doing his best to seem dismissive and is failing. Emma is quiet still, watching from her cubicle, and there is something very diminished about her. Regina hates it. “If you’re going to prove that you weren’t involved with Gold or Cora, you also need to prove that the idea is anathema,” she murmurs. “We need that on the memo. You need to fire one of us.” 

 

Emma says, “Tamara,” her voice hardly a croak. 

 

Tamara ignores her. “I negotiated with Gold,” she says blandly, and Regina reels, stares at her in betrayal. “I didn’t– there was nothing that I did that turned the tide for us. Just little bits of help along the way. You’re the reason why this campaign is successful. I was…I was trying to give us one advantage against Jones’s thousands of advantages.” She sounds defensive, guilty, but she forces a cool, practiced smile. “Make an example of me,” she says. “Kick me off the campaign. I did this–” 

 

“You did  _ not _ ,” Emma shoots back, and Regina looks at her in surprise. Emma is the  _ last  _ person she can imagine conspiring with Gold. But there had been all those secret missions with Mulan, the skulking that Emma had been sure that Regina shouldn’t know too much about– “This was my fault,” she says. “I’m the one who has to take responsibility for it–” 

 

“You cleaned up my mess,” Tamara says, eyes narrowing, and  _ now  _ Regina’s beginning to piece this together, bit by bit.

 

“I’m already fired,” Emma says, and she looks up at Regina, bold and beseeching in a way that she hasn’t been in a long time. “Regina, you have to kick me out. Tell the people I’m already gone. This is on me–”

 

“It is  _ not _ ,” Tamara says furiously. “Stop  _ martyring  _ yourself, I can–”

 

“ _ Stop _ .” It isn’t Emma who’s responded. It’s Neal, looking in horror at them both. “Both of you! What are you  _ doing _ ?” He stands up, and Tamara and Emma fall silent, staring at him in startled dread. Regina watches him, absolutely lost, and Neal walks to her, a hand resting on her arm. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I thought…I saw it as a chance to take care of you, for a change. But it was just…a mistake, yet again. And I dragged Tamara into this mess, and then Emma. I’m the one who has to go.” 

 

Regina shakes her head slowly, looking from Tamara to Neal to Emma, helpless. All three look at her, Emma defiant and Tamara guilty and Neal with his eyes bright as he waits. Regina squeezes her eyes shut. “I don’t want to fire anyone,” she says.

 

“You’re going to fire me,” Neal says. “Gold’s son. I have the best motive, and you make the point clearly if you kick me off the campaign. And I  _ am  _ the one behind this. No one else deserves to be taken off the team.” He shrugs, self-effacing. “The best thing I did for this campaign was to bring Emma and Tamara in. They’re not leaving because of me.” 

 

She  _ needs _ Neal, needs Tamara, needs Emma most of all. Neal shakes his head. “I’ll be a phone call away,” he promises. “I’m not going anywhere. But I’ll keep my distance until after the campaign.” He gives her a smile, and it’s a little less easy, a little less unworried than his usual. “You’re going to be able to handle the debate prep without me?” 

 

Regina stares at him, wills herself not to acknowledge this new, miserable reality, and then jerks her head in reluctant acquiescence. “Thank you,” she whispers. “I have to…” She spins around, making a quick stride for her office, and she hesitates at the door, sensing Emma behind her.

 

Emma trails after her in silence, and Regina leaves the door open as she steps inside, too weary to be strong today. Emma shuts it carefully, the shade swinging against the window, and she says, “It  _ was  _ my fault.” She takes a breath. “Not the…not the partnership with Gold in the first place, but the video. I did that.”

 

Regina turns, uncertain of what she can respond to that. Emma is looking at her in agony, with so much guilt on her face that Regina doesn’t understand. “Oh? Did you make the video?” she asks evenly.

 

For a moment, there’s a flicker of exasperation on Emma’s face, and Regina is relieved by it, by the first sign of anything other than turmoil on her face. Then, the entire story is pouring out of her, every last bit of it, every stakeout and conversation with Neal and Tamara. “I couldn’t tell you,” Emma says fervently. “I couldn’t– I didn’t want it to color your campaign and I didn’t want you to have conspired with them if it came out. And I was going to  _ stop _ it, but…” She gestures helplessly. “Gold warned us this would happen if they didn’t go along with his latest scheme. I made a call. Maybe it was the wrong call.”

 

“No,” Regina says immediately, and it might be selfish of her, to derive so much comfort from Emma being in her presence after Regina has done everything she can to alienate her. “No, it wasn’t.” 

 

Emma seems to sag in that moment, the tension seeping out of her at once. But what else can Regina say? This new awareness of what her team has done is damning, is everything she’s ever fought against. She’s furious, and she’s heartbroken, and she feels betrayal churning in her stomach when she thinks too deeply about it. “For months…” she whispers finally. “ _ Months _ ! I thought we were doing this on our own.” She shakes her head bitterly. “I feel so  _ stupid _ . Of course I’m no match for my mother alone.” 

 

“That’s not true,” Emma says hotly. “ _ Please _ . Neal…what? Rigged the end of the debate? Got some pictures taken offline? Got you some contacts? He’s done damage control, sure. But he didn’t make you. He didn’t get those contacts on your side. They were already on your side. He didn’t put together your policy plans or save the shopkeepers on Main Street or win over all the townspeople just by listening to them–” 

 

“They hate me,” Regina says dully, remembering all those hostile faces. “They think I betrayed them.” 

 

“They won’t hate you forever.” Emma is fervent in her defense, has a hand on Regina’s arm and it nearly breaks Regina right then. “The dust will settle, and they’ll remember that Cora’s most damning evidence against you is herself. And they won’t vote for her candidate.” 

 

“They won’t vote at all,” Regina says heavily. “And Jones’s supporters will still flock to the polling stations. We…we have one week to cool them down. It won’t be enough.” 

 

“It seems impossible,” Emma acknowledges, but there is renewed fire in her eyes. “But if anyone could do it, it would be you. And–” She falters, but the words still come, Emma never very good at holding back. “If you don’t, you will. Four years is enough time to finish most schooling and come back here to run again and to take down Jones. It won’t even be a competition by then. The people will regret ever letting you go, and you’ll be everything they’ve ever wanted. I believe in you,” Emma says fiercely, catching Regina’s gaze.

 

“Emma,” Regina whispers, and they’re suddenly too close, like muscle memory drawing them to each other. Emma’s eyes flicker to Regina’s lips and Regina remembers Mother, again, with the glint of victory in her eyes as she’d told Regina about Ingrid. She draws back suddenly, recoils, manages to force a neutral expression onto her face. “I forgot we hate each other for a minute there,” she says shakily.

 

Emma only looks at Regina, her fingers tracing circles into her palm. “I don’t hate you,” she says, and Regina feels another hot bolt of frustration.

 

“Why the hell  _ not _ ?” she demands. “I  _ fired  _ you! I did to you what everyone has. I brought you into my home and then kicked you out and I’ve been treating you like  _ garbage _ , and you’re still– you’re still  _ trying to win my campaign _ –” And she doesn’t understand any of it, how Emma can  _ stay _ , how Emma keeps staying no matter how hard Regina tries to push her away. “What the  _ hell _ – what are you doing here? Why are you sticking around while the campaign– while I fall apart–” 

 

She lunges forward and kisses Emma, out of words and left only with fury at Emma and her damned  _ principles _ , at whatever noble resignation she’s had to Regina’s team. Because  _ what the hell _ , why can’t Regina  _ shake  _ her, why can’t Emma just–

 

Emma kisses her back with the same fire, her fingers clutching onto Regina’s hips as she gasps into her mouth, both of them stumbling forward together and Regina’s back slamming painfully against the wall. She doesn’t care, the pain sending another bolt of want through her, and she buries a hand in Emma’s hair, yanks her closer as Emma presses her to a wall, and Emma gasps out, “Need you.” 

 

“Shut up,” Regina says back, a groan escaping her as Emma attacks her neck with renewed vigor. She needs–  _ Emma _ , and it’s been too many miserable days without her. She wants to– to slam her onto the desk right now, have her writhing and naked with Regina’s fingers eking out all the right noises and sensations– to–

 

She moans, high-pitched as a sob, and throws Emma backwards, sees wild eyes for a moment before she’s shoving Emma against the closed door and tearing at her shirt, slipping her hands up under it and palming her breasts with vigor. Emma throws her head back, banging it against the shade’s slats, and she tugs Regina closer, a thumb dipping into her underwear. “God, you’re a  _ bitch _ ,” Emma mumbles, splaying a hand over Regina’s skin, a finger stroking the thin line of hair that Regina keeps trimmed. “So hot.” 

 

Regina shudders against her touch, so familiar and right, everything she’s been longing for for so long. “Fuck off,” she hisses. “You  _ idiot _ . Just  _ leave _ already.” But she has Emma pinned to the wall, her shirt rucked up and one arm out of its sleeve and her bra undone, and she buries her face in Emma’s breasts. 

 

It isn’t a beautiful coming together, the way that Regina likes to imagine it had been when they’d been together. It’s messy and desperate, both of them pushing for more contact, for more touch as though they’d been starving for it, and Regina presses kisses and light bites to Emma’s breasts, feels her thrashing against her in response, Emma’s fingers pressing into Regina’s clit in response. Regina writhes frantically against her, one hand still holding Emma back by the hair and the other slipping into her jeans, squeezing her ass as Emma bites out another curse and her hips swing into Regina’s. 

 

Emma isn’t moving slowly today, is merciless in how she makes Regina thrash and sob, and Regina can feel her orgasm erupt across her until her breath is hitching and her heart is pounding and her hand has found its way into Emma in return, pumping wildly as she buries her head in Emma’s bare shoulder to ride it out. It feels like it goes on forever, Emma unyielding as she pumps and stimulates and moves within Regina, and every wave seems to bring another. Finally–  _ finally _ , because Regina thinks she might die if this goes on for any longer– Emma is shuddering as she comes, her fingers slowing in Regina at last, and they sag into each other, sliding together to the floor in a tangle of half-on clothing and limbs and kisses. 

 

Regina is on Emma’s lap, her head still pressed to her neck, and Emma is crying.  _ No _ , they’re both crying silently, helpless tears leaving salty trails down Emma’s neck and Regina’s hair, and Regina has never felt more miserable and more at peace at once. This is…a moment of weakness, a blip that Mother can never know about. This is  _ everything _ , and Emma wraps her in strong, warm arms, and Regina wants to stay in them forever.

 

Instead, she closes her eyes, savors the feeling of Emma in her arms, and then inches slowly out of them. Emma leans against the door, her shirt halfway off and her jeans undone, her hair a mess of yellow, and her eyes are still closed as Regina pulls away. There are tears still dripping down her cheeks, and Regina can feel new ones emerging from her own eyes as well.

 

She turns away. “We’re done here,” she says, and it sounds small and afraid instead of authoritative. “Clean up and get out.” 

 

When she turns back, Emma’s eyes are open, the tears gone. Her gaze is intent on Regina’s tearstained cheeks, and Regina flushes and looks away.

 

* * *

 

Emma is maybe, just slightly, picking fights with townspeople now. Not that they don’t  _ have it coming _ , because she’s sick and tired of seeing them turn on Regina over an  _ attack ad _ , but she might have to tone it down, she reflects, because the Lost Boys are rallying around her now and it’s getting ugly. “Stop,” she says to Peter and Ava, who are converging on Moe French from the flower shop with murder in their eyes. “You’re not going to win Regina any fans by intimidating shopkeepers.” 

 

Peter scowls at her. “Oh, so it’s okay when you do it?” 

 

“I’m just using words–” Emma begins, exasperated.

 

Moe mutters, “As though you can expect any more from the posse of that–” And then he calls Regina a word that has Emma whirling around and punching him in the nose.

 

“Emma!” Mulan says, alarmed from where she’s been lurking at the sidewalk. 

 

Ava claps Emma on the back. “You’re a good one, Swan,” she says, sauntering off with Peter. Emma glares at Moe, daring him to go on, and he mumbles to himself again and staggers to his shop, clutching his nose.

 

Mulan says, “So maybe we’ll skip out on that flower delivery.” 

 

Emma shrugs. “I’m here to help.” It’s not her fault that the people of Storybrooke are  _ assholes _ . The anti-Regina signs still taunt her in the windows of shops, and Election Day is swiftly arriving without a shift back in public opinion. The debate is scheduled for tonight, and Regina has been distant, turning down Tamara’s offers to practice with her and barely looking over her notes for it. 

 

She’s resigned herself, Emma thinks, to a loss. Maybe that had been what their encounter in the office had been, too, another loss for Regina to the enemy she can’t seem to get out of town.  _ I’m on your side _ , Emma wants to shout, wants to force Regina to meet her eyes again and push her until she’s fighting. 

 

But Regina has been distant since then, has barely met anyone’s eyes. She’s quiet as she rarely is, withdrawn and muted, and she sits in her office for hours, staring blankly at her computer screen. She’s stopped campaigning, stopped making phone calls, and Emma stubbornly doubles her own workload.

 

The media has seized on Regina’s new perceived weakness and done some digging, and every day brings another article exposing more of what Neal had done, about old deals with Gold, about Cora and Regina’s relationship. Regina’s life is being torn apart, piece by piece, then sewn back together into a simulacrum of what it once had been.

 

“It’s ridiculous,” Mary Margaret says on Friday afternoon, pacing through the sheriff’s station. Emma is there with Tamara, reviewing Election Day procedures before they leave for the debate. Regina had gone with Marian earlier in the day to prepare at the news station, but she’d been unenthused about it, no fire in her step. “They keep asking me to run a write-in campaign. I don’t want to be mayor! I was trying to make a  _ statement _ .” She sighs. “And the statement wound up being  _ vote Regina,  _ and I’ll stand behind that.”

 

“I don’t understand how so many people can meet Regina, hear from her, and then believe this bullcrap,” Emma says moodily. “Everyone knows Cora’s the snake. Regina would  _ never _ .” 

 

Mary Margaret shakes her head. “We know that, but there’s only so much you can fight the media. Your memo was good. And Neal’s stayed out of the spotlight for the past few days. But if you respond too firmly, you just sound defensive. And the onslaught won’t stop.” Sidney had written one article in their defense, a balanced piece about the effects of this smear campaign on the campaign. The others are coming from unnamed online sources, trickling into better-known media with every new piece of information.

 

Emma wants to fight Gold again, to stalk into this debate and make a scene. Instead, she departs from the station with her heart aching, meeting up with the others on the way to Town Hall. Regina looks beautiful, freshly made up for the debate, and she catches Emma’s gaze for a moment.

 

Emma, who has spent the past few days thinking up an exact and careful retort for the first time Regina acknowledges her existence again, is left dry-mouthed at the softness in Regina’s eyes, and she says dumbly, “Hi.”

 

“Hi,” Regina echoes, and she takes a step forward, Marian falling back to walk with Tamara and Jacinda. “Shouldn’t you be with the other volunteers?” Her voice is gentle, though, without the bite that accompanies it so often now. It feels sometimes as though Regina is only too tired to fight now, and Emma just shrugs in response.

 

The people are giving them dark glares as they walk past toward Town Hall, and Regina smiles thinly at them. “They’re going to have plenty of questions for you tonight,” Emma murmurs. “Are you going to be okay?” 

 

Regina doesn’t respond at first, her eyes hardening as they settle on something in the distance, and Emma says, “Regina?” 

 

But Regina is stalking forward through the throng, toward one of the side doors that lead to a room meant for the candidates to wait in. Jones is just emerging from the room, and he looks put off when Regina brushes past him and yanks the door to the room open. 

 

Cora Mills is inside, and she looks, for the first time since Emma had met her, trapped. A man is speaking to her, and he doesn’t turn around or seem to notice when the door is thrown open. “How can you do this to her?” It takes Emma a moment to recognize the voice from a voice she’s only ever heard on the phone. 

 

Henry Mills shakes his head. “She’s our daughter, Cora.”

 

Cora looks scornful, her eyes never once flickering to them. “She’ll weather it fine. I made her to weather these things. She’ll come out of it stronger, with the understanding that she and I are a team.” 

 

“She’ll come out of it without a mother,” Henry Mills says sadly. “You’re better than this, Cora. Regina doesn’t need to be controlled. She needs to be set free.” 

 

Cora’s lip curls, but the trapped look remains, the uncertainty on her face for the first time. Divorce or not, Henry Mills appears to have some sway when it comes to Regina. And Emma, for the first time, wonders if there might still be hope. “Strong words from an absent father,” Cora drawls out. “Maybe your first strong words ever. I’ll mark the event in my calendar.”

 

Henry sighs. Regina says, “Daddy?” 

 

Henry turns, his eyes lighting up. “ _ Mijita _ ,” he says, and Regina flies into his arms, disregarding her makeup and hair. “I had to be here for the end of your campaign. I can’t wait to see you tonight,” he says, pressing a kiss to her hair. 

 

Emma glances back at Cora, who is watching the warm hug, her eyes narrowed. She looks irritated by it, still with her lip curled in clear annoyance, and Emma keeps her eyes on her until Cora has finally departed.

 

* * *

 

Daddy is here. Daddy is  _ here _ , after fleeing from Storybrooke years ago and never looking back, and Regina is overwhelmed with joy at one final thing actually going her way. “There’s so much I have to show you,” she says, hand-in-hand with him. Mother has skulked off, leaving the two of them together in the prep room with Emma. “So much to tell you. I can’t believe you’re  _ here _ .” 

 

Daddy beams at her. “The future Mayor Mills? How could I not watch you reach this milestone?” 

 

Regina’s smile falters. “Oh,” she says, and she shakes her head. “Well…you saw the video, didn’t you?” 

 

“I read the articles, too.” Daddy shakes his head. “Neal has always been a good friend to you, but this was…perhaps a bit zealous.” He brightens. “Still, I don’t think any articles or videos can ever undo the work you’ve done.” It’s Daddy, always so reluctant to dwell on anything negative that he’d rather be willfully ignorant instead. “You have been  _ wonderful  _ during this campaign,  _ mijita _ . I’ve been so proud.” 

 

He lays his hands on her shoulders, giving her a warm smile that is full of all the strength that he’s given her instead of keeping for himself. And then he turns, his eyes alighting on Emma, who is pretending to watch the crowd in the hall instead of listening in to the conversation. “Ah,” he says. “This must be Emma Swan.” 

 

Regina swallows. Daddy has never met any of the girls she’s had fleeting relationships with, has never so much as been told when Regina has been seeing a girl. She’s never come out to him, has never known how he might take it, and she’s never quite known if he’s been aware of her sexuality or not.

 

At least she can avoid introducing Emma as her girlfriend  _ now _ , though her heart aches at the thought of pretending for any longer. “That’s me,” Emma says, fidgeting as she looks up at him. “I’m…uh, I guess I’m a volunteer on the campaign these days. We spoke on the phone once before the last debate.” 

 

“Oh, I’ve heard very much about you,” Daddy says warmly, and he shoots Regina an amused look that she refuses to return. “My daughter speaks of little else.” 

 

“Daddy!” A flush is threatening to break out across her face. Emma looks startled, then pleased.

 

Daddy ignores Regina’s protests. “Day in and day out,” he says, reflective. “ _ Emma Swan says this. Emma Swan thinks this. I hate Emma Swan. Emma Swan is the best thing that ever happened to me _ –” 

 

Emma stares at Daddy, looking both amused and astonished. “She really said that last one?” 

 

Regina shakes her head frantically. “Just last week,” Daddy says serenely, and Emma gapes at him, then Regina, and then looks very lost. Regina refuses to look at Emma again. Daddy says, his voice gentle, “You have been a gift to my daughter, and I am very grateful for it.” 

 

“Oh,” Emma says, flustered. “I haven’t really…”

 

“You’ve been wonderful for her. I hear it in her voice every time she mentions you.” He sticks out a hand and shakes Emma’s, and Emma still looks very baffled and uncertain. “I have…I have hoped for a very long time that Regina might find a girl like you.”

 

There is no mistaking the connotation there, and Regina looks up at Daddy, wide-eyed. He smiles at Emma again, then at Regina, and he reaches out so she can burrow under his arm. Emma says, stammering, “We’re not…are we?” She looks to Regina helplessly, and Regina doesn’t know what to respond.

 

Mother’s presence still looms over her, still reminds her that there is so much left for her to lose. But Emma is here, and Daddy is here, and  _ I have hoped for a very long time that Regina might find a girl like you _ , and Regina doesn’t know how to be strong anymore, not after losing all of Storybrooke. Maybe she can be weak today. Maybe she can… She takes in a shuddering breath and doesn’t respond.

 

Daddy kisses her brow. “I’ll leave you two to prepare for the debate. I want a good seat to watch you in action,” he says, stroking her hair as he steps away, and Regina can only manage to nod before he’s gone.

 

Emma lingers, and she murmurs, “You’re going to be great tonight. You’re always great.” There is no resentment in her eyes, no hatred or frustration, and Regina can’t–

 

She shakes her head, disbelieving. “You can’t possibly– why do you still insist on–” 

 

She stops. Emma says quietly, “I told you, I believe in you.” It isn’t fierce tonight. It’s quietly certain, no hesitation in her gaze, and Regina is frustrated all over again. 

 

“ _ Why _ ?” she demands. “Why would you keep– why did you come back to the campaign? Why do keep putting up with me and– and every single time I’ve tried to push you away? Why are you still rooting for me to  _ win _ when you should be halfway to Tallahassee by now?” 

 

Emma shakes her head, and her eyes glow, her heart so clearly displayed in them that Regina can’t breathe. “You know, for someone who knows every single town ordinance cold, you can really be kind of dumb.” She takes a step forward, Regina taking a step back, and they’re suddenly out of the frame of view in the window of the door, standing opposite each other against the wall beside it instead.

 

Emma smiles at her, her gaze so sweet and wet that it hurts. “I love you,” she whispers, and Regina’s heart thumps in her chest, feels as though it might erupt right there. “I love you  _ so  _ much. That asshole I met on my first day of the campaign and the girl who’s been fighting her mother and the woman who cares so much about this town that she’s become unstoppable.” Her hand falls into Regina’s, and Regina is frozen, but for the tips of her fingers as they curl around Emma’s hand. “Look at them,” Emma murmurs, tugging her to the window of the door.

 

It’s a thin, tall window, and Regina’s line of sight is obstructed beyond the first few rows of townspeople. “You know them,” Emma whispers. “You  _ talked  _ to them. You went from fighting Mary Margaret’s supporters to hearing them out and letting them see that they mattered to you. This isn’t– this isn’t a presidential campaign. These aren’t faceless people who have chosen to believe an attack ad over you. This is the campaign you wanted, with the people you wanted to help. You won them over.” 

 

Her hand is still tight in Regina’s, invisible below the window of the door, and Emma murmurs, “You won me over. Why should they be any different?” 

 

The room is quiet, and Jones is already waiting at the edge of the stairs to the stage, chatting with Mother on the opposite side of the stage. Hans has gotten up in front of the room, and he clears his throat, the sound muffled in Regina’s room. “Our candidates will take the stage,” he says, nodding to Jones. “Killian Jones of the Maine American Party.” 

 

Jones walks up to loud applause, winking at the audience as though he’d been born for this. “And the Maine All Families Party’s representative,” Hans says, raising an eyebrow at Regina as he catches her gaze. “The embattled Regina Mills.” 

 

There are cheers, but they’re subdued, and the boos are nearly as loud. Emma’s hand begins to slip from Regina’s, but Regina tightens her grip on it as she opens the door, new resolve spreading through her along with the last of Emma’s words to her. 

 

Emma looks at her in astonishment and a little concern. But she walks with Regina, ascends the stairs and stands with her, their hands still locked together tightly as Regina takes her position. There’s a murmur as the audience takes them in, as Emma stands uncertainly and Regina straightens. Hans blinks at them, his eyebrows raised. “Have you brought a… _ guest _ …to your debate?”

 

“I will not debate tonight,” Regina says, and there is blood pounding in her ears, a strange exhilaration taking over her in this moment. What she’s about to do is reckless, is a last-ditch attempt when she has nothing to lose. Daddy is in the audience, smiling up at her. Mother looks furious and alarmed, her eyes flickering to Emma and back to Regina. “I have something to say.” 

 

The audience stops murmuring abruptly. Hans says dryly, “Well, I don’t think you’ve ever bored us. Go ahead.” 

 

“I know you’ve all seen that video,” Regina says, staring out at the audience. “And the posters, and the articles. My life has been dug up and displayed for your judgment, and I’ve been found wanting.” She swallows, Emma squeezing her hand. “And I understand that,” she says, smiling out at the audience, and she has to will her voice not to break. “I know you’ve been burned before by politicians who said what you wanted to hear and then…and then used you for their purposes. I know that my family name is enough to cast doubt on who I might truly be.” 

 

She pauses. Emma whispers, “You’re doing  _ great _ ,” and the microphone picks it up, broadcasts it to the audience. They titter, not entirely as hostile as they were before.

 

Regina clears her throat. “I can’t defend the indefensible,” she says. “Yes, members of my team went behind my back to make deals with Elias Gold. I won’t excuse their behavior. I won’t deflect it onto them, either. I take full responsibility for my campaign team’s actions. I should have known, and I should have stopped it. I would have stopped it,” she says firmly. “The people of this town have the right to transparent election campaigns.” 

 

She glances around the room. The townspeople are watching her, wary but listening. “I won’t ask you to ignore any of that,” she says. “But I’ve spent the past six months talking to all of you. Getting to know everyone in this town.” She looks around, finds a face in the audience and speaks. “Ali Naaji, who sells carpeting on Main Street and who lost power in his apartment for three months after the last blackout. His landlord sidestepped laws that would have required him to do something about it.” Gold, in the audience, twitches. 

 

“Ashley Boyd, who became a mother at nineteen and began a daycare for other young mothers struggling to balance motherhood and their children. She’s been a proud volunteer at our campaign for months.” Ashley beams at her, gratified, and Regina looks around again.

 

“Drew Naveen, who just began his first job at the local bakery a few months ago. Ava Zimmer, who has gotten her GED after being asked to leave Storybrooke High School without any other options. She’s applying to colleges now, and plans to come back to Storybrooke an engineer.” The Lost Boys hoot. Emma’s thumb rubs against Regina’s hand. “Archie Hopper, who has never failed to greet me with a smile every morning. 

 

“Bash,” she says, finding another face. “Rafi. Merida and Lance. Marco. Remy. Sabine and Jacinda,” she says, finding their nonplussed faces and smiling at them. “Moana. Is that campaign poster still on your wall?” The twelve-year-old girl bobs her head, her eyes sparkling. “I’ve listened to your stories. I’ve heard about your troubles, about what you want from Storybrooke. And I’ve learned so much from each of you. I hope you’ve learned a little about me, too, much more than articles written as part of a smear campaign might tell you.” 

 

She leans forward against her podium, smiling hesitantly down at the audience. “And I suppose…what I’m asking for now is trust, come Election Day. Trust that I wasn’t lying to any of you. Trust the woman you’ve gotten to know. And trust that I, with all my heart, am devoted to taking Storybrooke back from people like Elias Gold and Cora Mills. Trust me,” she says, a hitch in her voice at last, and she thinks she might be close to her breaking point. “If I’ve earned that.” 

 

The room is silent, the faces watching her unreadable. Regina turns and walks off the stage, Emma’s hand in hers her anchor in the storm to come.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, the grand finale!

**NOVEMBER 4**

_Election Day_

 

The clock on her phone ticks to midnight, the _3_ on her calendar app changing to _4_ , and Emma takes a deep breath and rolls over, struggling to sleep. Tomorrow– _today_ – is the big day, and Regina had sent everyone home an hour ago. Jacinda and two of the volunteers had stayed back, insistent that they could still do more tonight and be up on time tomorrow, but otherwise, everyone had gone to sleep.

 

There’s an odd peace that has settled over the campaign since Friday, a certainty that this is _it_. Regina has invited a referendum on her words and actions, and there is little more that they can do before the election. She’s made her phone calls and made an appearance at as many locations as possible this weekend, and now–

 

Now, they wait.

 

Emma rolls over, prepared for another sleepless night, and wistfully remembers dozing off on Regina’s couch before the primary. She hadn’t known then to treasure those moments, to savor every instant with Regina even before they’d gotten to date. She’d never known that…

 

This campaign had been a whirlwind, life-changing as so few events have been in her life, and she isn’t ready to let go. David has a job waiting for her in mid-November, and she’s going to settle in, to figure out who she is in Storybrooke without the campaign to keep her going. Maybe this is where she belongs. Or maybe living in Storybrooke without seeing Regina daily will be a miserable prospect.

 

She rolls over again, her blanket tangling between her legs, and there’s a soft knock at the door.

 

Somehow, she knows it’s going to be Regina behind it, and she pulls on a shirt and tugs the door open. Regina has her arms wrapped around herself, a long coat and leggings not enough to hide what looks like one of Emma’s t-shirts peeking out from beneath the coat, and she says in a raspy voice, “I couldn’t sleep.”

 

Emma moves to the side silently, and Regina walks in, her eyes flickering around the apartment as Emma closes the door behind her. “This is…it’s really nice,” Regina murmurs, slipping her coat off and hanging it on the hooks beside the door.

 

Emma shrugs, self-deprecating. “It’s a place to sleep,” she mumbles. She’d been proud of it before, when she’d desperately wanted Regina to come take a look at it. Now, it just feels lacking, a big room without any artful decorations or curtains, any way to make it look more sophisticated or homey.

 

Regina shakes her head. “No, it’s…” She looks down. “It’s lovely,” she says, and she chews on her lip and continues to gaze at everything in the apartment but Emma.

 

Emma swallows. “You should be sleeping,” she says finally. “It’s past midnight, and in the morning…”

 

Regina shrugs. She _is_ wearing one of Emma’s shirts, dressed for bed without apology, and she says, “I don’t sleep well.” The _anymore_ is silently understood, and Emma sighs and motions to her bed.

 

“It’s not as comfortable as yours, but…” Regina is tugging off her leggings without another word, moving toward the bed, and Emma latches the door and then climbs into the bed after her. They’re curled together in moments, and Emma can feel the drowsiness finally begin to settle over her, the comfort of sleeping with Regina in her arms again the soporific she’s needed. Regina tucks her head into the crook of Emma’s arm, her arms wrapping around Emma’s waist, and Emma kisses the top of her head. “Good night, Regina,” she murmurs.

 

Regina slips a hand up Emma’s shirt, splaying it against Emma’s skin, and Emma closes her eyes and doesn’t react. She doesn’t know where they are now– if they’re broken up or if they’re finding their way back to each other, if Regina had actually come out to the entire town on Friday or if they’re back to _good friends_ . If they’re supposed to _hate_ each other.

 

A shiver crosses her body at that, goosebumps erupting where Regina caresses the skin of Emma’s back, and Emma refuses to respond, fighting every instinct she has to reciprocate. Not now. Not again. Not until she understands _whatever_ it is that they’re doing now. Every encounter they have now makes her fragile, twisted around and unsure what is real and what isn’t. She usually isn’t thinking clearly around Regina to ask those questions.

 

Tonight, it’s just not the time, and so she stays very still, waiting, until Regina’s hand slides back down from her back and settles over her shirt again. She presses another kiss to Regina’s hair to soften the blow, and Regina curls in closer to her and doesn’t move again until Emma is dozing off, Regina’s even breathing lulling her almost to sleep.

 

And then Regina’s breathing stops abruptly, and she takes a breath. “I’m sorry,” she whispers into Emma’s shoulder. “I shouldn’t have…”

 

“It’s okay.” It is and it isn’t, and Emma knows the same incessant _pull_ , the way Regina feels as though she was made for Emma. And whatever heartbreak she’s endured, she still craves Regina’s touch. “It’s…today is…” Today is _different_ , and they both know it. There is a quiet feeling already that today is an exception, that today is a day unlike any other.

 

Regina disentangles from Emma for a moment, shifting up to meet her eyes, and Emma says in a rush, “One last day, right?”

 

 _One last day_. It isn’t just one last day for the campaign. It’s their last day together, their final excuse to have any daily interactions. Regina deflates at the reminder, looks at Emma with muted heartbreak, and Emma should feel smug at it, maybe. Satisfied. Instead, she just hurts.

 

“Right,” Regina whispers, the world nearly voiceless, and the tremble of her body belies the insistence that she wants Emma gone. Again, again, because Regina pushes her away with desperation but looks as pained by it as Emma feels. It doesn’t make _sense_ , it’s enough that Emma can’t be quite as furious at her as she deserves, and Emma drifts off into a troubled sleep, dwelling until Regina is asleep in her arms.

 

She wakes up at five in the morning at a rap at her door. Regina is still sleeping peacefully, her head resting on Emma’s chest and their bare legs tangled together, and Emma extricates herself carefully from Regina and pulls on a pair of jeans before she opens the latched door a crack.

 

It’s Cora Mills behind it, and Emma blinks. Cora blinks back. Emma closes the door, very certain that this is a bad dream.

 

The rapping begins again, more insistent, and Emma sighs and unlatches the door, slipping outside before Cora can see her daughter asleep on Emma’s bed. Cora is still standing in front of her, looking nonplussed, holding herself as though she’s afraid that a speck of dirt from the hallway might contaminate her expensive clothing. “What the fuck do you want from me?” Emma says tiredly.

 

“I’d like to give you an opportunity,” Cora says, eyeing Emma much like she’s been eyeing the rest of the building. “To help my daughter’s campaign as well as–”

 

Emma holds up a hand. “I’m gonna stop you right there,” she says, yawning. It is _much_ too early for this bullshit. “I don’t want to make any deals with you. I’m not going to buy whatever you’re selling. So just…” She sighs, surrendering to wakefulness. “Aren’t you tired of doing this?” she says finally, asking what she’s tried to every single time she’s confronted Cora. “Don’t you have any limits?”

 

“Ah,” Cora says, her eyes narrowing. “So some former fling of my daughter’s truly thinks that she understands her best interests better than I do.”

 

 _Former fling_ , she spits out with disdain, and Emma shifts beneath that accusation. “I do understand them better,” she says stiffly. “Because I _listen_ to Regina. And I know that…I know that none of this is for her. You know it, too. And Regina does. Regina doesn’t need to be a political superstar. She needs a _mother_.” Cora is short, even in heels, but she has a presence beyond her height that is intimidating. It makes Emma want to pick a fight, and she has to struggle to stay calm.

 

Cora twists her lips. “She can have both,” she says, an edge to her voice.

 

“No,” Emma says, and she means it. “Regina will never trust you again. Not if you don’t…don’t stop trying to take away everything that she cares about.” She bites her lip, and there’s nothing left to lose at this point, nothing left for Cora to attack Regina with. Cora will always find a way, though. Cora never hesitates. “You can still– show her you _care_ . Show her you aren’t going to hurt her anymore. Do you have any idea how much you _terrify_ her? What kind of mother–?”

 

Cora shakes her head. “Why do you keep trying this, dear? Manipulation is not your forte.” She says it as though it’s an insult, as though Emma will take it as any less than a badge of honor.

 

Emma shrugs, too tired to filter herself. “Because I never had a mom,” she says, and she shakes her head, feels frustrated tears stinging the corners of her eyes. “And some… _idiotic_ part of me thinks that Regina might find something worth keeping in hers.” Or at least closure, at least some peace with a woman who has never let her know peace before. Regina deserves better than Cora, but Cora is the one to have inflicted all those scars on Regina, and she’s Regina’s best chance at letting them heal.

 

 _No_. Cora doesn’t get to heal Regina’s scars. Regina still spooks easily, still faces the world and expects it to tear into her some more. And all Emma wants is for Cora to stop confirming that, to take a step back so Regina doesn’t have to live in fear of her mother anymore.

 

Cora eyes her, and Emma can’t read her expression. “She tossed you aside,” she says. “She _fired_ you. She broke your heart, and you’re still going to remain loyal to her?” There’s a note to her voice that Emma can’t make out. Is she… _impressed_? “What is she holding over your head?”

 

Emma blinks at her. “Holding over my…” She laughs aloud. “You really can’t imagine that she might just inspire people to follow her, can you? You don’t know what it means not to rule by fear.” Cora watches her balefully, and Emma shakes her head. “Take a step back and look at your daughter,” Emma says, and she’s being too bold, her protectiveness superseding her caution. “She’s nothing like you, and she’s _amazing_.”

 

Cora scoffs and turns on her heels, descending the stairs a careful distance away from the railing. Emma sighs, returning to the apartment to a sleepy-eyed Regina. “Who was that?” she asks, her voice a tired rumble.

 

Emma shrugs, unwilling to let Cora ruin Regina’s day already. “No one who matters.” She sits down on the bed to run a hand through Regina’s hair, admiring this worn, adorably rumpled look on her. “You can use my shower. I’ll have coffee up in ten.” She has a coffeepot, an old one from the bakery that Jacinda had passed on to her, and she sets it now while Regina watches her sleepily from her bed. “The black stuff on the drain is grout, not mold. I checked.”

 

Regina leans back against the pillow, still watching Emma, and she doesn’t move. Emma putters around in the kitchen, feeling Regina’s gaze on her, and she savors it silently, breathes more easily knowing that Regina is here with her one last time. Today is _it_ , is the day when anything can happen, when the world is going to change irrevocably for them all. _One last day._ “It’s going to be a long day,” she comments once she’s fried two eggs and has the coffee, moving to sit beside Regina on the bed.

 

Regina’s brow furrows, and she jolts, her eyes widening. “Election Day,” she says suddenly. “I forgot.”

 

Emma stares at her. “You did not.”

 

Regina laughs, a little shrilly. “I did!” She stumbles out of Emma’s bed, her coffee still in hand, and looks around frantically. “I didn’t– I need my _clothes_ – I need a shower–”

 

“You need breakfast,” Emma says firmly, and she waits until Regina stops pacing and sits again stiffly. “Eat. Breathe. It’s going to be a long day,” she repeats, and Regina slumps onto the bed again, buzzing like a live wire. Emma puts a calming arm around her shoulders, and Regina exhales.

 

“Emma,” she says, and she turns, looks at Emma with quiet longing on her face. Emma still doesn’t _understand_ , doesn’t know what it is that Regina wants from her anymore. Regina wouldn’t play games with her, except that’s what this feels like, a long game where Emma knows nothing and Regina holds all the cards.

 

She pulls away, her hand slipping from Regina’s shoulder and running along her back for a moment, and she offers Regina a smile. “I’ll go get you whatever you had picked out for today. You stay here and shower.”

 

She makes a quick getaway, Regina watching her as she tugs on her jacket and flees the apartment.

 

* * *

 

Regina had made the mistake of using Emma’s shampoo, and now she feels as though there’s a cloud of _Emma_ surrounding her at all times, Emma’s scent wherever she goes. Not that Emma isn’t there, too, hovering beside her as they move between polling stations. “We’ll make a full round this morning,” Emma says, an earphone permanently in her ear as she talks to Tamara at their home base. “Before everyone leaves to work. Then we’ll do another round for the latecomers and give Regina a lunch break. Eat this,” she says, producing a granola bar out of nowhere and sticking it in Regina’s hand. “And drink some water.”

 

Regina drinks obediently as Emma parks her Bug. For the day, they’ve plastered the sides with **_LET’S TAKE BACK STORYBROOKE!_ ** signs and have a few American flag balloons coming out of the back window. Sabine has deemed it the _Votemobile_ , which Emma has taken very seriously. “Should we really have a volunteer in charge of handling the candidate?” Regina had said meekly, and Emma had given her a dark look and continued to shove food at her.

 

Emma is probably best at handling her, aside from maybe Marian, who is handling Zelena instead as they make phone calls together, urging more voters to the polls.

 

Regina doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. When she emerges from the car with Emma, it’s a coin toss how she’s going to be greeted at each polling station. At some, she’s greeted with tentative smiles and what looks like forgiveness. Others are cold to her, brushing past her and glaring at her from afar.

 

She meets a gaggle of dubious, undecided voters at one of the early stations, and they brighten when they see her. “See?” the woman says, gesturing at her. “Does that look like a woman who’s conceded?”

 

“Certainly not,” Regina says, smiling at them. There are four of them in all, all white and wealthy. Two men, a woman, and a teenaged girl who looks bored with the whole process. “If you have any questions, I’m happy to answer them.”

 

“Are you a shill for Cora Mills?” one of the men blurts out. The teen blinks, looking interested at last. He shrugs, looking defensive at the others’ stares. “Well, that _is_ what the media is saying.”

 

Emma snorts. “Cora Mills showed up at my door this morning to try to get me to agree to some deal to manipulate Regina,” she says, and Regina looks at her in surprise. “I don’t think she’d be doing that if Regina were a shill.”

 

“She did _what_?” Regina echoes. She’d known Emma had had an early-morning visitor, but she’d assumed it had been Neal or someone who shouldn’t have been seen with Regina right now.

 

Emma shrugs dismissively. “I didn’t listen to what she had to say.” She looks at the voters, her chin up. “But it tells me that she’s afraid. Cora doesn’t walk into apartment buildings like mine without being very worried about losing an election.”

 

The teen snorts. “You people act like any of this is going to make a difference,” she says, glancing down at her phone. “It’s just a mayoral election. It’s not like it matters.”

 

“I don’t think I’m going to change the world,” Regina says, summoning up her deepest reserves of patience. “But I think I can change this town that you live in. I…” They’re all listening, the men with suspicion, the woman as though begging for her to say the right thing. The teen is staring blankly at her phone. “I guess I see solutions here, little incremental changes that can benefit everyone. And I think that this town is governed often by people who see the mayoral position as just that: a position. A stepping stone to wealth and power.”

 

The second man speaks up. “And you’re telling us that you’re not gunning for a better job in a few years?” he says dubiously. “You’re in all the papers. The whole of Maine has been watching you and waiting to see what you do next. Just because you’re a born politician–”

 

“I _am_ a born politician,” Regina says, and she feels that in her bones, as much as twenty-five years of being trained for it can be. “It’s easy to lose sight of what that means, to start looking for…for celebrities who look good and can…” She pauses, not quite sure of what exactly it is that Killian Jones can do.

 

“Sing and dance pretty decently,” Emma suggests, making a face. The teen snorts again, her eyes flickering to Emma. Emma, as always, has a gift for bringing in disaffected kids.

 

“That,” Regina agrees dryly. “I think we’ve begun underestimating what it means to be a politician, to think of it as a job that anyone can do. But it isn’t. It takes years of skill and study to learn how to negotiate, how to work the system, how to make deals across the aisle and find that one thing that can make both sides happy. How to translate the needs of the people into policy.”

 

“And you have years of skill?” the second man says, raising his eyebrows.

 

Regina shakes her head, conceding the point. “No. But I understand that there’s a skill to master. This isn’t something to do just for the hell of it. This is a job I intend to take seriously. I don’t want to be anywhere but Storybrooke, governing this town and making it into the place we all deserve.”

 

The teen rolls her eyes. “Whatever. I’m going to vote.” But Regina sees the way she sneaks a glance back at her once she’s inside, the way she regards her almost thoughtfully before she vanishes inside.

 

The second man follows her lead, the woman trailing after him. “She’s full of hot air,” he says, loudly enough for Regina to hear. The woman says something in a murmur, a half-hearted acquiescence, and Regina thinks _two more for me, one for him_.

 

The last man is still standing opposite them, considering Regina, and he says, “Killian Jones says you’re going to expand the other side of town until those Lost Boy hooligans who work for you are wandering through _my_ neighborhood at night.” He wrinkles his nose.

 

Regina says patiently, “Do you think he’s right?”

 

The man contemplates that for a moment. “Felix– that one who’s always with Peter– he applied for a job as night watchman at my brewery,” he says. “I gave it to him. The boys haven’t been around the brewery much at all since they got involved with your election.” He doesn’t elaborate anymore, just looks lost in thought as he vanishes into the building and leaves Regina and Emma behind.

 

They look at each other. Emma says, “Here,” and pulls a stick of cheese from her never-ending bag of snacks.

 

They’ve made it to every polling station by ten in the morning, and Regina is already exhausted. She’s been up for five hours and she’s out of steam, ready to curl up in Emma’s car and take a break. Instead, she sits up straight in the passenger seat and says, “Back to the first station?”

 

Emma glances over at her, then back at the windshield without a response. “Buckle up,” she says finally, and she takes off in the opposite direction of the first polling station. Regina leans back, bemused, and lets Emma drive her out toward the town line, Emma pulling over just beside a path into the woods and leading her out to a rickety old bridge. “Peter told me about this place,” she says. “I wanted to find somewhere quiet to sit.”

 

Regina follows her onto the bridge, frowning. “This is _Election Day_ , Emma. We can’t afford to take a break to…to find somewhere quiet.”

 

“You have limits,” Emma says, tapping Regina’s nose. “We’re not going to push you to those. So you get a break every round.” She pulls a large beach towel out of her bag and lays it across the bridge, looking at Regina expectantly. Regina sits down on it, and Emma stretches out across it, arms folded beneath her neck as she gazes up at the trees.

 

Regina glares down at her. “I don’t have limits.”

 

“Yeah? Last election, you were so worked up that you made out with your brother’s girlfriend while the numbers were coming in.” Regina scoffs, and Emma smirks at her. “And I _really_ don’t think that Tamara is into you, so–”

 

Regina blinks. “Are they finally dating?”

 

“Not that they’re aware,” Emma says, shutting her eyes. A serene smile has settled across her lips, and Regina can feel that calmness beginning to spread to her, relaxing her more than expected. She sighs, stretching out across the towel beside Emma, and she watches her, traces the profile of Emma’s face with her gaze.

 

The tension between them has faded, but with it comes a new tension, one of things left unspoken. Regina hadn’t wanted Emma to be the one traveling from polling station to polling station with her, had begged the others to come instead, and had been met with unyielding stares. “Whatever reasons you had for firing Emma, they aren’t enough to justify any of us having to spend the day tomorrow keeping you happy,” Jacinda had said dryly. “Let it go.”

 

Terror grips her each time they’re seen publicly now, each time it might get back to Mother that Regina is still holding onto Emma. She _isn’t_ , she’s trying her best to break free, but Emma isn’t so easily discarded. Emma has taken pieces of her heart and is holding them hostage, and Regina can’t extricate herself from Emma without leaving too much of herself behind.

 

But Mother had gone to Emma this morning and said something, had tried making a deal with her and hadn’t told Emma anything that might have broken her. What is Mother’s _game_? Why wouldn’t she use Ingrid against Emma?

 

After today, Regina thinks grimly, Mother will. There will be no mistaking Emma beside her today, just as there had been no mistaking Emma holding her hand at the debate. Regina has pushed Emma aside imperfectly, has failed at saving Emma from her mother, has been too selfish to push her aside completely. And Emma is drawing back now regardless, because Regina has pushed her enough.

 

Regina remembers last night, her fingers drifting up Emma’s back in quiet invitation for more. Emma had frozen up, had waited until Regina had retreated again, had kept their sleepover very much about sleep. Emma says she _loves_ Regina, but she won’t let Regina hurt her again.

 

 _Good_ , Regina thinks, devastated. _Good_ , because Emma doesn’t deserve to be hurt, no matter how much Regina craves to kiss her right now. Emma deserves the _world_ , deserves to be happy, and Mother will ensure that Emma is never happy for as long as she’s in Regina’s orbit.

 

Today will be their last day together, she knows grimly, just as Emma had said last night. Election Day, out of necessity, and then they will go about their personal lives separately. Mother will use Emma after the election if she sniffs out her importance to Regina. Mother will never stop using anyone in Regina’s life, victory or not.

 

 _Victory_. Victory today means four years of fighting, of having enough power to bring her voice to the table. It means getting to be an advocate for Storybrooke, means learning to win more battles like this one. Victory means four years of facing off against Gold-Mills Consulting, and it exhausts her and excites her at once.

 

“Hey,” Emma murmurs, and Regina opens her eyes. Emma is propped up on her elbow, looking down at Regina with unthinkable tenderness. “What are you thinking about?”

 

Regina lets a slow fierce smirk curl up her lips. “Winning,” she says, and Emma grins back.

 

* * *

 

They make a quick second round before an early lunch break, where they meet the others at Granny’s. Their campaign headquarters have been deemed too small for the results party tonight, and so they’ve instead rented out Granny’s for the afternoon and evening. Granny has been a sport, even grudgingly allowing Sabine to bring in her own baked goods to serve.

 

Zelena is there, along with Regina’s father, both of whom flock to them as soon as Emma opens the door for Regina. “How many voters has Emma beaten up for you today?” Zelena asks, tilting her head and grinning lasciviously at Emma. Emma blinks at her, taking a step back.

 

“I haven’t attacked a single voter today,” Emma protests, keeping a careful distance from Zelena. A friendly Zelena seems an even more terrifying prospect than an unfriendly one, and she turns away, glancing out the windows instead. “Hey, look. Jones is here.”

 

He’s standing at the sheriff’s station, chatting up the occasional voter and leering at the diner. He’s here to be _noticed_ , to pick a fight, and Zelena says dryly. “Well, it’s hardly even eleven. There’s still time.”

 

Belfrey is gone from Jones’s retinue now, replaced by a hapless-looking boy who looks vaguely familiar. “He isn’t one of ours, is he?” Emma says, squinting out at him.

 

Ruby takes one look out the window and laughs aloud. “He _was_ ,” Ruby says. “That’s…I can’t remember his name. Something short and boring. Regina fired him on the day that she hired you.”

 

“ _Right_ ,” Emma breathes, remembering exactly that moment. She’d been lurking behind Neal, gaping in horror at the woman subjugating the campaign office and wondering which of her hapless minions might be the sister that Neal had thought she’d get along with. “Well, he did say he was going to vote for the other guy, didn’t he?”

 

Regina scoffs. “He was only there for the extracurricular,” she sneers, and a hand slips onto Emma’s back. “You got us much better volunteers. Even if you did think the campaign was doomed to failure, too.”

 

Emma stares at her in betrayal. “I did _not_ ,” she says. “I never thought that.”

 

“You called it a joke,” Regina recalls. “And you told me that the campaign didn’t have a chance.” She raises her eyebrows. “Because no one would ever listen to me.”

 

Emma winces. Regina’s father is watching them in amusement, and it is somehow _very_ important that he likes her. “You definitely started it,” she finally manages.

 

Regina looks offended. “I would never. I was nothing but welcoming to you.”

 

Emma flings a palm card at her. “ _Liar_ .” She turns to Henry Mills, who is still watching them, his eyes bright. “She spent every day trying to get rid of me. She’s _still_ trying to get rid of me.” It’s meant as a joke, but she falters, biting her lip and turning away.

 

Regina’s father tilts his head. “I can’t imagine that’s true,” he says, smiling at Regina, who suddenly looks uncertain again.

 

“I would never want Emma gone,” she says, and Emma can feel the truth of that statement in her bones, deep in her heart. The others present are quiet, are watching them with dark, somber eyes, and Henry seems to realize then that there is something they aren’t saying. Regina watches Emma and Emma is overwhelmed, is dazed by the look in her eyes.

 

“Well,” she says lightly, and she means it to be a joke and not one at all, a bald statement she has to make because she desperately wants it to be wrong. “Give it another day and I’ll be out of your hair, Madam Mayor. But for now, I think we’d better get going again.”

 

She leads the way out of the diner, feeling too many eyes on her, and Regina is on her heels. “Wait,” Regina calls, and her voice is choked. “I…”

 

Emma waits, her heart pounding in her chest, and Regina runs out of courage all at once, exhaling in a whoosh and looking up at her beseechingly. “I’m _so_ sorry,” she says. “For the way I treated you. At the start of the campaign and…and…” Her fingers twist together, and she looks trapped, lost. “I wish things could be different,” she whispers, and Emma barely hears it over the wind. “I wish that we could…”

 

But she can’t finish the sentence, and her head droops, defeat written across her face. “Let’s go woo the populace,” Emma murmurs, and she slips her hand into Regina’s and tries to savor it, another final touch before they have no reason to touch ever again.

 

* * *

 

The afternoon is busier, and Emma’s forced breaks get shorter and shorter. “We just have to get through the next few hours,” Emma promises her. “Just until the polls close. Can you do this?” She has a treat, a bag of Sabine’s beignets, and Regina surprises herself at how desperately she gobbles them up, leaving only one for Emma. “Hang in there, Regina.”

 

“How are you holding up?” Regina asks her, remembering that Emma might not be on display in the same way as Regina is, but still has to _deal_ with Regina, and that might also be taking its toll.

 

Emma shrugs. “It’s a good day,” she murmurs, and Regina knows what she means. She rarely feels as good as she does when she’s fighting for Storybrooke alongside Emma Swan, and today is a full day of that. If not for tomorrow looming ahead of them, today might be its own kind of perfect.

 

 _Give it another day and I’ll be out of your hair, Madam Mayor._ Victory or not, Emma is going to have a whole new life after today and no more reason to spend it with Regina. Regina is going to have a whole new life– school or the town or both, whatever happens next– and there will be no more excuses to be weak, to surrender to Emma’s pursuit instead of doing the right thing and giving Mother no more reasons to pounce.

 

“It _is_ a good day,” Regina agrees helplessly, and she hates living in this universe where she can’t kiss Emma whenever she wants to.

 

Emma spares her another smile as they pull up at the school, parking on the curb. “Good. It’s the day you win.” She says it with a certainty that Regina clings to, and she bounds toward the entrance, careful to indicate exactly how close to the entrance they can legally loiter. Marian is at the school with volunteers, passing out palm cards and smiling, and Emma says suddenly, “Wait.”

 

“Wait?” Regina echoes.

 

“This is our polling station.” Emma brightens. “Regina, we have to _vote_.”

 

She bounds inside, Regina trailing behind her, never so grateful that Emma’s apartment is just barely in the same voting precinct as hers. The man behind the desk gives them a warm smile as they pick up their ballots, secured in long folders, and they take their places in makeshift voting booths.

 

Regina opens the folder, scans a few of the other names up for election and picks her favorites for various positions. Only when she’s done with the rest does she finally look at the options under **_General Municipal Election_ **.

 

There are only three including the write-in option, and she’s the second of them. **_Mills, Regina_ ** . It’s her name on the ballot in an election, and Regina feels a shiver run through her, a thrill at seeing her name in paper. It’s nothing like it had been just to vote for **_Locksley, Robin_ ** in the primaries. This is _her_ , and she colors in the first oval on the ballot beside her name, feeling an odd rush at it.

 

“Hey,” Emma says in a murmur, a hand landing on her back. “Mills, Regina. How about we go submit these bad boys?”

 

They walk together to the submission machines, sliding in their ballots, and there’s an energy thrumming through her when she puts it in, a sudden flash startling her. It’s Emma’s phone, snapping a picture of her, and Emma looks down at the picture with quiet pride. A shiver passes through Regina, and she takes Emma’s hand again, holding it with quiet defiance as they exit the polling station.

 

There have been a lot of sidelong glances since she’d appeared on stage with Emma during the debate, a lot of quiet unspoken questions. At least one article from a pundit had declared Emma her _best friend_ , but another had headlined an article today with _Day of Judgment For Queer Latina Candidate In Small Town Maine_. That one had sent a chill through her, a sensation as though this might be bigger than just her and just Storybrooke, and she swallows now at the memory of it.

 

Somehow, it’s getting to walk through Storybrooke while holding Emma’s hand that has been the very best part of today.

 

They emerge into the bright November afternoon, the sun high and the wind whipping at the yard signs still up across the street. Marian is still outside, but she looks worried, and Regina soon sees why.

 

Killian Jones and Mother are standing in front of the school, Jones facing down a crowd of girls in purple and gold. “Come on, loves,” he coaxes, flashing them his trademark smirk. “I’m all about the girl power, but you can’t tell me that you wouldn’t like to have me as your mayor.”

 

A few of the girls swoon, just a tiny bit. One of them narrows her eyes. “We want _Regina_ ,” she says, and the others remember themselves, holding up their signs again. “We don’t want some idiot who doesn’t know how to tie his own shoelaces without Cora Mills giving him instructions.” She looks very pleased with herself as Jones gapes, his lip curling.

 

“Well,” he drawls, looming over her. “I suppose we’re all fortunate that you can’t vote.” He takes a step forward, and Emma and Regina are crossing the lawn to them in a hurry, Emma’s fists already clenched.

 

“Back away from my girls, Jones,” Regina bites out. The girls preen at the _my girls_ , and Regina lays a hand on the mouthy one’s shoulder, her eyes narrowing at Jones. “You can’t possibly think that intimidating children is the way to win this election.”

 

“Ah, yes, I should be skipping around town with my lesbian lover,” Jones drawls, looking Emma up and down. “Though I suppose I can’t blame you for that one. She’s a nice piece of–”

 

Regina grabs him by the top of his jacket, yanking him to her. “Watch it,” she snarls, and Jones looks very smug. This is going to be on Twitter in roughly thirty seconds, but Regina doesn’t _care_ , not when Jones is–

 

“Step down, Killian,” says a cold voice from behind him, and Regina turns her glower on her mother. “Go wait in the car.” Mother is standing still, her face unreadable, and the girls snicker as Jones slinks off obediently. They gather around Regina, protective in their purple and gold, glaring down Mother. Regina waits, tense at the expectation of another fight, at her mother standing opposite them while Emma is beside her, collateral damage all over again.

 

Mother’s eyes move from Regina to Emma’s grim face and then back to Regina and her entourage of fierce followers, and Regina can feel the terror suffusing her, making it difficult to breathe. Mother’s attack ad had made it clear that she’ll stop at nothing to destroy Regina, and– _not Emma, not Emma, please_ –

 

Mother nods. Then she turns and goes back to the car, sliding into the passenger seat beside her driver while Jones sulks in the back.

 

“That was surprisingly mild of her,” Emma says, her brow furrowing. “It was weird. I’m weirded out. Are you weirded out?”

 

Regina can’t answer, her body wound too tightly, her muscles clenched until she’s stiff as a board. Emma watches her searchingly, and she says, after a long moment, “You know? I think we could all use an ice cream break, yeah?”

 

The kids cheer. Emma leads the way down the road, toward the ice cream shop, and they spend a good half hour there before Regina unwinds, curling up against Emma’s side in their booth and chatting with families at the shop. She’s drifting off before Emma prods her again, a murmur against her side. “We’ve got to go.”

 

And so the afternoon continues into evening, with nonstop campaigning and Emma at her side. It’s exhausting and invigorating at once, driving from location to location and putting on a pleasant face. It’s the longest day of her life. But somehow, she can’t imagine her last day with Emma going any differently.

 

The polls close at eight at night, and they do a final drive through and then head back toward Granny’s. “Wait,” Emma says suddenly, and she makes a right down the road, turning abruptly and parking in front of a familiar building. “Go ahead,” she says, giving Regina a gentle push. “The polls are closed. And you should share tonight with your brother, too. I’m going to head to the party. You walk over there with Neal.”

 

Regina looks up at the light in Neal’s window and breathes. “Thank you,” she murmurs. She leans back in her seat, staring at Emma, and she suddenly wants to cry. “You’ve been…you keep taking care of me. I don’t deserve it.” She’s hurt Emma, even if it’s for Emma’s own good. She feels the guilt right along with the certainty that she’s saving Emma from something much worse, and she wishes–

 

Emma shakes her head. “You deserve to be surrounded by people who take care of you,” she murmurs. “You deserve…” She stares out the windshield, avoiding Regina’s gaze. “I don’t know why you fired me. Why you keep pushing me away. But what you’ve done for me…” She turns suddenly, meeting Regina’s eyes again. “You make me feel real,” she says, and there is an inferno roaring in her gaze.

 

 _You make me feel real_ , after years of sleepwalking, years of Emma being alone and without any roots. Regina understands it, has been in a haze of her own since she’d first left home years before. She’s flitted from place to place with her father, has mechanically worked through school and begun this campaign in a vain attempt to try to find a place where she is settled.

 

Somehow, in this town where she’s lived her whole life, she’s still searching for roots. And she’s found them in the same places as Emma, in their campaign and in their cause and in the crowd of people who have become family. She’s found them most of all in the woman sitting beside her, regarding her with burning eyes, and she rasps out, “You’re more…you’re more real than anyone I’ve ever met.”

 

Emma closes her eyes, exhaling. “Feels kind of like the end of the world today, huh?” But then she smiles, the fire simmering and her eyes bright. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

* * *

 

Neal is on the phone when he opens the door, distracted as he says, “Yeah, I _know_ , but how quickly are the counts going to go? Maybe I can– Regina.” He clicks off the phone without another word and she flies into his arms, burying her face in his broad shoulder. “Regina!” he says, laughing and spinning as he holds onto her. “I was afraid you’d never talk to me again.”

 

He pulls her back, looks her in the eyes with a warm gaze, and she realizes suddenly just how much she’s missed him. “You’re going to be elected as _mayor_ tonight. You did it.”

 

“ _If_ I am, then _we_ did it,” Regina corrects him, her heart doing that comfortable _thump-thump_ that it does around Neal. Neal is her safe place when she’s at her worst, and she feels immediately calmer with him beside her. “All of us, and you should be there for the results party, whether or not we win.” She’d been far more confident of their chances a week ago, but a part of her still wonders at the supporters she’d spoken to today. Maybe there’s a chance. Maybe she really might–

 

She can’t think about it too much or she’ll fall apart right here. “Come with me,” she says.

 

Neal shakes his head. “It’ll look like–”

 

“It’ll look like you’re my brother,” Regina wheedles. “Come on. I can’t walk there alone and Emma already drove back.”

 

“Emma brought you here, huh?” When she looks up at Neal, his eyes are knowing, and Regina winces. “You know what? Let’s head on down there,” Neal agrees. “We can talk while we walk.”

 

Regina watches him warily as he gets his coat, sliding an arm around her shoulders once they’re downstairs so they can walk comfortably down the block. “So,” he begins, “Emma.” Regina shakes her head mutely. “Come _on_ , Regina.” Neal coaxes. “I stepped back because I figured that this wasn’t really my place, but you two aren’t really on the outs, are you? I saw you at the debate. And in photos all over Twitter from today. You can’t tell me you really want her gone.”

 

“I’m trying,” Regina mutters. “She isn’t cooperating. I just want her _away_ from–”

 

“Cora,” Neal finishes, and Regina looks up at him in alarm.

 

“What did she say to you? What did she–?” Mother has struck again, this time undetected, and Regina has been oblivious to it.

 

But Neal is shaking his head. “Nothing. Nothing, Regina. She knows I’m off limits.” He squeezes Regina’s shoulder. “I have a father like your mother, remember? I know how they operate. Papa threatened Tamara and I just _folded_. What does Cora have on Emma?” He looks suddenly alarmed. “We don’t have a secret baby, do we?”

 

Regina laughs as though she hadn’t put together a contingency plan for exactly that scenario. “She…she has proof of something from Emma’s past. Something that’s going to break her heart.”

 

“You already did that just fine,” Neal observes, and Regina shudders against him, feels the desperate frustration ready to burst from her.

 

“You don’t understand,” she says, and she stops walking, leans against him and stares up at him beseechingly. “It won’t _end_. Mother isn’t going to stop at this. As long as Emma is in my life, Mother is going to keep finding ways to hurt her– ways to threaten me into submission to protect her. Mother will use every weapon she can against Emma.” Emma is strong, but Emma doesn’t have an immunity built up to Cora Mills. Cora will prey on her as she does everyone in her domain, use her against Regina and use her, period.

 

Neal sighs heavily. “So what’s your plan?” he demands. “You’re just…not going to have any meaningful relationships until your mother gets old and dies? You’re going to spend the rest of your life pining for the girl you love and pushing her away when she comes to you?”

 

“Maybe. I don’t know,” Regina says, defensive. “I’m not going to subject her to Mother. Not for _me_. I’m not worth the rest of her life.”

 

Neal is silent for a moment, contemplating the lights in front of them on Main Street. “Cora sent money to Daniela Colter’s family,” he says suddenly, and Regina stares at him. “Papa let it slip a few weeks ago. She offered Daniela some huge sum if she’d leave forever, and Daniela took it.”

 

Regina inhales, slow and shaky. Of course. Daniela had been– Daniela’s family had been everything to her, and she’d been in Storybrooke only to earn money to send home. Mother had known exactly what buttons to push with Daniela.

 

Oddly, she finds, she isn’t filled with heartbreak or rage or betrayal at the thought of it. Instead, it leaves behind a peaceful sort of closure. Daniela might have loved her, but Regina can’t begrudge her for taking a sum that certainly would have helped her family to survive. In the end, trust funds and the freedom to run away and tour the world in heartbreak are luxuries only for a fortunate few. “What’s your point?” she rasps, thinking again of Emma and the tiny apartment that she’d been so self-conscious about.

 

Neal shrugs. “Just…I don’t know. Daniela had something else to fall back to. Maybe let Emma make that decision for herself instead of protecting her for her own good.”

 

“Strong words from the guy who ran an entire undercover operation throughout my campaign,” Regina says dryly. She’s too tired to hold a grudge for that now, too ready to put all the nastiness of the campaign behind her. Now, she only wants…

 

She wants to win. She wants to be happy. She wants Emma, so desperately that it hurts.

 

Neal scoffs. “That was politics. This is love.” He gives her a little nudge, starting forward again. “I know your mom screwed you up. I know what it’s like to spend every day just waiting for a parent to show up and take everything good you’ve ever had away.” He looks at her, beseeching, and she sees truth in his eyes, an understanding that can only come from someone else who’s been through what she has. “But you’ve been fighting your mother for Storybrooke for months. Don’t you know that you’re worth that fight, too?” Regina shakes her head, unable to respond, a lump in her throat. “Come on, kid. Go to your party. Talk to Emma. Your world is going to change tonight. Do you really want to watch that happen without Emma?”

 

“I don’t want to exist without Emma,” Regina confesses, a whisper that seems to float away in the wind.

 

Neal squeezes her shoulder again. “Maybe try telling her that,” he says wryly, and he guides her forward, toward the bright lights of Main Street.

 

* * *

 

“She’s coming,” Gwen reports from the door, twisting around. “She’s talking to Neal in front, but it looks like they’re wrapping up.”

 

The diner is decked out in purple and gold and bustling. Volunteers, families, Regina’s crowds of loyal kids, and assorted supporters are all crowded around, eating second dinners and watching as Anna and Hans interview Facilier while they wait for results.

 

“Whatever happens, Regina Mills’s challenge proves that there is a large contingent of Storybrooke townspeople who are fed up with their leadership,” Facilier points out. “The greatest attack on her campaign was simply the suggestion that she’d collaborated with that leadership. And before that, I would have said that she was a shoo-in.”

 

Hans leans forward. “But she was matched with Jones in the polls.”

 

Emma tunes them out, turning back to Gwen. “Are we ready?”

 

“She’s here. She’s here,” Gwen calls out, her voice rising above the crowd, and the occupants of the diner fall silent. Neal opens the door and Jacinda hits the button on her phone, playing _Hail to the Chief_ as Regina walks in.

 

Emma applauds, and the others do the same, whooping and cheering as Regina looks around in delighted surprise. “No matter what happens tonight,” Sabine calls from where she’s standing on top of a table, Granny swatting at her legs, “You’re _our_ mayor, Regina Mills.” Regina has a pleased little flush on her face, and she looks around, glowing at the energy in the room. Everyone cheers again, and Emma whoops with them, loud enough that Regina turns and catches her eye.

 

She really is glowing like something otherworldly, the exhaustion gone from her face and replaced with exhilaration. Emma feels that same exhilaration, the certainty thrumming through her veins that she’s never going to have another night like tonight. This is _it_ , the culmination of the best nine months of her life. It feels good to be a part of something, to be fighting for a cause, to be fighting for _Regina_ , and Emma can feel warmth seep through her at Regina’s gaze.

 

There is something about it that is beyond anything they’ve ever shared before, something open and certain, and Emma feels the loss like a chill when Regina is pulled away by an eager townsperson.

 

“Excuse me,” Regina says, and Emma hears it from the other side of the diner. “There’s someone I have to talk to before the results are in– so sorry–” She’s maneuvering through the crowd, toward Emma, and Emma freezes and wonders–

 

She waits, and Regina emerges from the throng. “Emma,” she breathes, and Emma can only stare at her uncertainly, unsure of what it is that they’re doing now. “Will you–?” She gestures outside, and Emma grabs her jacket from the back of a chair and follows her out.

 

She doesn’t want to think about what Regina could want, doesn’t want to dwell on hopes and insecurities on a night like tonight. Still, against all odds, she trusts Regina, who has failed miserably at whatever cruelty she’d attempted since the rally. Regina doesn’t want to hurt. Regina won’t hurt her, and Emma feels a frisson of hope at the reminder.

 

Her hands are cold, and Regina takes them in her own gloved hands, warming them without a word as they stare at each other. Finally, Regina blurts out, “I love you.”

 

It isn’t eloquent or well thought out, not like practiced speeches and lengthy, emotional screeds with which Regina charms her electors. It’s a hurried, almost self-conscious admission, the least expressive statement that Emma’s _ever_ heard Regina say. It’s the most beautiful statement that Emma’s ever heard in her life, and Emma is frozen.

 

“I’m sorry I’ve been so…” Regina rubs at her eyes for a moment, then takes Emma’s hands again. “My mother tried blackmailing me,” she says finally, calmly, and Emma looks at her in alarm. “She has…she knows some things about your past–”

 

“Tell me,” Emma says, and she can’t imagine what it is that Cora has brought up to Regina now. Regina knows all the darkest parts of her past, her unruly behavior and petty theft. There is very little worth blackmailing Emma for, and she says so.

 

But Regina shakes her head. “You don’t know this,” she says, and her eyes fill with tears as she winds her fingers through Emma’s. “It’s going to…it’s bad. It isn’t something you _should_ know.”

 

“Let me decide that,” Emma says, fear and a lurking anger thrumming through that, through Regina making more calls about her without giving Emma a choice in them. “You haven’t let me decide _anything_ since the rally. Let me decide what I should know.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Regina says again, miserable. “I was trying to protect you. It wouldn’t only be this one thing. Mother will spend the rest of her life hurting you to get to me. You don’t…there is a reason why I don’t have successful relationships or friendships or–” Emma watches her, waiting, and Regina looks down. “Ingrid isn’t dead,” she says finally, and it hits like a bolt of agony, only Regina’s hands tight on hers keeping her grounded. “I’ve thought about it and I think…maybe she knew after her…attempt that she wouldn’t be able to adopt you anymore. Maybe she wanted to get her act together before she came back for you, and she never did. I don’t know. But I don’t think it means that she didn’t want you–” She’s stumbling through explanations, through little comments meant to ease Emma’s pain, and it’s more of a comfort than any real explanation could be.

 

Regina _cares_ , cares enough that she’d been trying to protect Emma out of some misguided certainty that Emma will suffer more at losing her dreams of Ingrid than she would at losing Regina. Cora Mills had found Regina’s weakness, and it had been Emma, had been the threat of her treating Emma in all the ways that she’s been treating Regina for her whole life. _No. No_.

 

“Regina,” Emma whispers, and she puts aside her devastation at Ingrid for another day, a day less emotionally charged. The anger is seeping away with the incontrovertible fact that Regina has done this all out of terror of a mother who has never done anything but destroy her. But beneath the anger, she’s only very sad. “I wish you’d told me.”

 

“Mother would have come up with something else, then.” Regina shakes her head, blinking back tears. “Mother never stops. I’m not _worth_ that. You’ve built a whole life for yourself here and she’s going to take away every single piece of it.”

 

“She already has,” Emma says without thinking, and Regina looks at her in tormented chagrin. “Your mother is…is an abusive piece of _shit_ , Regina. But I’d rather spend a lifetime fighting her off than spend it without you.” Regina blinks back more tears, and Emma’s throat has a suspicious lump in it. _All in, then_. “I don’t know why you thought I’d ever choose anything else.”

 

“I thought…” Regina bites her lip. “I thought your apartment was your exit plan. I didn’t think you’d want to stay if my mother got involved.”

 

It’s so _stupid_ , suddenly, remembering the drama over the apartment in the midst of Election Day, that Emma laughs through building tears. “I didn’t even want to _go_ . You kept bringing up the apartment and I thought something permanent might…might prove how much I wanted to be here. I was trying to do our relationship right. Like adults, you know? Then you _fired_ me.”

 

She reaches up to capture Regina’s face with her hands, Regina staring at her with helpless eyes. “You’re so _dumb_ sometimes,” Emma says with all the fondness in the world, and she kisses Regina soundly, pulling away only to say, “I can’t believe you’re gonna be Storybrooke’s _mayor_.”

 

“Intelligence is _really_ not a prerequisite for the job,” Regina says sheepishly, and she presses her lips to Emma’s again, holding her tightly in an embrace. “I love you,” she whispers again, and Emma feels a shiver creep up her spine in quiet pleasure at the words, filling scars and gaping emptiness in her heart that she’d never thought that she might heal.

 

“I love you,” Emma counters, and she feels a wave of relief when she says it, when they can both stand holding onto each other without fear.

 

“It won’t be easy,” Regina cautions, and she looks afraid again, as though this might be the time that what she says will push Emma away. As though another warning might be enough for Emma to flee.

 

“I don’t care,” Emma says, pressing her cheek to Regina’s, the two of them holding each other until they’re nearly dancing, swaying in the wind in silence. She glances up at the windows of the diner, just in time to see a dozen people turn away from them and pretend to do something else.

 

In her arms, Regina goes suddenly rigid. “Mother,” she says.

 

“I told you, I don’t–” But there is something about the way that Regina says the name that has Emma twisting in place, turning to see what Regina is seeing. And sure enough, Cora Mills is standing at the opening at the front of Granny’s seating area, watching them in thoughtful silence.

 

Regina takes a step away from Emma, and Emma wraps a defiant arm around her, feeling her relax just a hair. “What do you want, Mother?” Regina says tiredly. “The votes are in. You can’t sabotage my campaign anymore by pretending that we have any kind of positive association.” There is pain wracking every syllable she speaks, every dull and weary word. “Just stay away.”

 

Cora considers her, then Emma, and Emma remembers the conversation they’d had this morning and the odd exchange from earlier today. “I came to wish you well,” she says evenly. “I’ve been impressed with your campaign. You’ve managed to overcome every hurdle thrown your way.” She pauses, the rare approval odd and flat in its incongruity, and she says, “You certainly have earned the position, if you win it.”

 

Regina laughs, sharp and bitter. “Am I supposed to believe you?” she demands. “You were the one throwing hurdles. You’ve done nothing but try to bring me down. You went after my friends…my…Emma,” she says, and she wraps her own arm around Emma in equal defiance. “And now you want me to believe that you _support_ me?”

 

“My methods haven’t involved coddling you,” Cora acknowledges coolly. “And my respect is earned, not given. But you _have_ earned it.” She gestures at the diner. “You’ve created a movement here. You’ve done more to invigorate Storybrooke for this election than any mayor in history. I’m impressed.”

 

Regina looks at her in disgust. “I don’t want your approval,” she says. “Let’s _go_ , Emma.” She starts forward, stalking to the door, and Emma follows behind her.

 

She pauses at the door, after Regina has already stormed inside, and she says, “If this was your attempt to mend fences, it was a pretty shitty one.”

 

Cora looks irritated with her. “I didn’t ask you,” she says. “You were so insistent that I make an overture. Well, that’s over and done with–”

 

Emma cuts her off. “If you love her–” And she isn’t sure that Cora does, that Cora is even capable of understanding what love is. “If you want to be in her life,” she amends, “Showing up when you aren’t wanted isn’t going to change anything.” Cora watches her, face hard and hostile. “Back _down_. Stop manipulating Regina. That’s a first step.”

 

Cora scoffs. “If helping her to see that she deserves better is _manipulating_ –”

 

Emma holds up a finger. “No more blackmailing her. No more using the media to torment her. No more going after her friends.” Cora watches her coldly. “Just…give her a reason to look at you without being terrified of what new ways you might hurt her.” Emma can’t imagine ever trusting Cora, but this is…the beginnings of a reprieve, maybe. Of a life for Regina where she doesn’t have to live in fear of what her mother might do at every time. “Maybe someday she might consider it.”

 

Cora’s face gives nothing away. “I saw–” She hesitates, and for an instant, there’s a flicker of something on her face that might be introspection. “I understand what it is that draws so many to her. It’s nothing that I’ve given her.”

 

“Yeah.” Regina has become the woman she is in spite of her mother, not because of her, and it’s what makes her such a potent candidate. A petty part of Emma is smug at Cora realizing it, at her understanding just how independent of Cora’s machinations her daughter is.

 

As though Cora can sense her thoughts, she sneers at Emma. “I didn’t ask you,” she says snidely, wheeling around. “I have better things to do than chat with some crass girl who’s wormed her way into my daughter’s heart. She’ll be done with you soon enough.” She stalks off, but her words only seem to glance off of Emma now, doing little damage.

 

Regina is by the door when Emma turns, her brow furrowed as she watches her mother go. “What was that?” she says.

 

Emma shakes her head, wondering at it. The election results are yet to come in, but a second battle is over at last. “I think it was…Cora’s concession speech,” she murmurs.

 

* * *

 

“In about five minutes, we’ll have our earliest precincts reporting,” Anna says, beaming at the camera. “Turnout in Storybrooke has been _unprecedented_ for a midterm election. And new voters lead the pack. Exit polls hint at a strong MAF representation in the 18-29 bracket, while the 45-64 bracket has gone solidly for Jones. It’s going to be a tight one, and Hans and I will be here with you for the whole process.”

 

They break for commercial, and there’s a whoop from the Lost Boys, a wave of enthusiasm running through the room. Regina isn’t nearly as convinced. “We lost one of the largest demographics we have,” she says, wringing her hands. “What are we going to–”

 

“ _Wait_ ,” Marian says, somewhere behind her. “Breathe.” Mulan is with her, no more speeches to write at last. Regina has written her own speeches for tonight– one in case of victory, and one…

 

One she’s terrified of having to use. She’s poured nearly a year of her life into this, and perhaps many more before it. She’s put so much of _herself_ into the campaign, and she knows that, for all her talk of fighting onward, losing this might break her.

 

She watches the television screen, stares at a commercial for toothpaste with intense focus, and a hand lands on her back, Marian’s voice murmuring in her ear. “What do you need?”

 

 _What do you need?_ She breathes, struggles to find the right answer to that question, and there really is only one. “I need my team with me,” she says, and they flock to her, one at a time, these people whom she’d hardly thought of as friends at the start of the campaign.

 

Now, they’re her family, the people she looks to for centering ahead of even her sister and her father. Marian, ever her steady support. Jacinda, who’s plastered in **_REGINA MILLS_ ** stickers and has an exhilarated sparkle in her eyes. Mulan, with Aurora tucked in beside her on one side and Ruby on the other, watching the screen with the same intensity that Regina had a moment before. Sabine, who only watches Regina, her hard-eyed faith as bouying as the exhilaration that her wife displays. Tamara, perched on the table behind them, her tablet in hand and her eyes fixed on it. Neal, a hand resting on Tamara’s knee and that easy, confident smile returned for the night.

 

Emma, her fingers digging into the back of the chair she’s holding onto, watching the screen and looking just as terrified as Regina feels. Regina reaches for her hand, and Emma takes hers without a word or a glance. The screen flickers back to Anna and Hans. “We’re back,” Hans announces. “And we have the Tenth Precinct reporting.”

 

The numbers on the board below them change abruptly. _Mills_ has fifty-one percent of the vote. _Jones_ has forty-nine. There’s a cheer through the diner, and Regina squeezes Emma’s hand. Emma squeezes back quickly, twice then thrice. “The Tenth has always been a toss-up,” Tamara says, eyes on her tablet. “We have 12,348 registered voters in Storybrooke. If we’re lucky, we’ll get half of them in.” There are 291 votes for Jones and 301 for Regina right now, a margin of only ten votes, and Regina holds her breath.

 

Hans peers at the totals. “The Tenth would have been a nice bellwether for what’s to come,” he says thoughtfully. “This dead heat gives us nothing but the promise of a strong race tonight.”

 

“You need to eat something,” Emma says suddenly. “When did you last eat?”

 

Regina shakes her head. “I’m not hungry. You’ve been feeding me all day.”

 

“Right.” Emma fidgets, restless with energy, and Regina slips her arm around Emma’s waist. “Is the Tenth the smallest precinct?”

 

Tamara shakes her head. “There’s the Sixth, but that’s a toss-up even assuming they came out to vote. And the Eleventh is another small one we might take.” She stares at the screen grimly. “It’s the Second through Fifth that I’m worried about.”

 

“Do we have many write-in votes coming in?” Anna says curiously onscreen. “There were some reports of a write-in campaign for Mary Margaret Blanchard, though she herself has thrown her support behind Mills.”

 

Hans shakes his head. “I’m afraid not, Anna. There are three write-in votes in the Tenth, two for Blanchard and one for…” He pauses. “I can’t say this name on broadcast TV,” he says wryly. “But no early signs of a strong campaign.”

 

“Thank you, Hans. Let’s have a brief recap of the race until now, and when we come back, we’ll check in on the Mills campaign right now.”

 

The screen dims, and Regina blinks around. “Do we have any reporters here?”

 

“They don’t have much of a budget,” Sabine says, rolling her eyes. “They need a few minutes to bring their equipment here.” And sure enough, Anna is striding into the diner minutes later, a cameraman behind her. “We’re here at the Mills campaign’s results party, where Mills’s supporters have flocked to watch the results.” There’s a two-second lag in the broadcast from when Anna speaks until it appears onscreen, and Regina turns to watch her in real time instead. Anna repositions herself out of the camera’s line of sight and Hans takes over as the camera focuses on Regina instead. “Mills is flanked by her top campaign advisors, including Marian Locksley and the ever-present Emma Swan. Neal Cassidy Gold also appears to be present, despite his dismissal from the campaign.”

 

Neal blinks away from the screen, staring at the camera instead. Anna says, “Mr. Gold, were you invited back to the campaign?”

 

“I’m here to support my sister,” he says warily. “We might not have agreed on my methods, but I still believe that she’s the best candidate Storybrooke has ever had to offer.”

 

“And Ms. Mills,” Anna says, rounding on Regina instead. “How does it feel to have this much support in a campaign that came into the ring with almost no chance of winning?”

 

She’s smiling at Regina when she asks it, and Regina wonders for the first time whom Anna had voted for. “It’s everything I’ve always dreamed of,” Regina says honestly. “I’ve always wanted better for Storybrooke. It’s been wonderful to discover that so many others buy into the same vision.”

 

Anna nods enthusiastically. “And I have to ask, Regina, on a night when you might make Storybrooke history–” She glances significantly from Regina’s hand to Emma’s, clasped within it. “What is the nature of your relationship with Emma Swan?”

 

Regina blinks at Anna, schooling her features. “I would say that that’s self-evident,” she says, and Anna looks baffled at that.

 

“I don’t know,” she says when she’s left the diner and returned to the station, the cameraman lingering at the diner. “Swan is certainly her closest lieutenant and one of the campaign heavy hitters.”

 

“They do seem to have a sisterly bond,” Hans agrees.

 

At a table nearby, Zelena nearly spits out her spaghetti. “Sister, my _ass_ –”

 

“And we have full results from the Third Precinct!” Hans announces suddenly, and the numbers change dramatically. Regina had expected it with the precincts they’d known they wouldn’t win, but her heart still sinks as _Mills_ swaps to 38% and _Jones_ remains strong at 60% of the vote. “Voters from the Third Precinct were most worried about crime statistics, and they voted for the candidate who promised to continue to enforce county police presence in Storybrooke.”

 

“The Seventh Precinct has brought it back to a nailbiter,” Anna pipes up, and the numbers change again, back to _Mills_ at 51% and _Jones_ at 48%. “We can see here how stratified Storybrooke has become in numbers alone. Whoever wins this election is going to have their work cut out for them when it comes to their promises of unifying Storybrooke.”

 

“Jones won’t _unify_ Storybrooke,” Sabine says disgustedly. “He’d just ignore half of us and cater to whoever elected him.”

 

The numbers swap with the next results, 51% to Jones and 48% to Mills. Regina swallows, feeling sick with tension. “With four of eleven precincts and thirty-seven percent reporting, Jones is in the lead,” Anna announces. “We’ll be back in a few minutes at Jones’s results party.”

 

Neal exhales for all of them, glaring up at the screen. “I don’t like those results,” he says darkly.

 

“We expected them,” Tamara says, scrolling through results on her tablet. “The Third, Fifth, Eighth, and Tenth are all in. We’ll lose the Fourth dramatically, I’m sure, and the First and Ninth are ours. The others are up in the air.” She bites her lip. “It’s the Sixth Precinct that I wonder about most. It’s right on the edge of the east side of town, and we’ve had mixed results there. There are more independent voters there than anywhere else in town, and– Emma?” she says suddenly, looking worriedly at her. “You okay?”

 

Regina shifts, glancing over at Emma. Emma is looking a little grey, and she blinks owlishly at Tamara. “Fine,” she says, impatient. “Go on.”

 

Tamara goes on, but Regina tugs Emma away from the group, sitting her down in Daddy’s booth. “When did you last eat?” she demands. Emma has been shoving food at her all day, and Regina hadn’t noticed until now that she hasn’t been eating anything with her. And Emma had been up even earlier than Regina had.

 

Emma shrugs, sheepish. “I haven’t felt up to it,” she admits. “It’s been…you know.” She waves vaguely at the room. “Kind of busy.”

 

Regina fixes her with a steely glare. “You are not fainting and missing the end of this election,” she says, rising. “I’m getting you a plate.”

 

The food is cold by now, but Ruby takes the plate from her and heats it up in the microwave. Regina waits anxiously by the counter, sneaking glances at the table where Emma is looking a little woozy, and she jumps when Daddy says, “She’s all right. A little food and water will do her some good.” He’s smiling at her, his eyes bright, and Regina feels a sudden lump in her throat. “I’m glad you’re happy, _mijita_. I can see why you love her.”

 

“Are you…” _Okay with that,_ she wants to finish, but Daddy puts a hand on her back and she doesn’t ask it. “She talked to Mother earlier. I didn’t hear it all, but Mother has tried to intimidate her again and again and failed.” It’s a strange thing to bring up now, perhaps, to anyone but her father. Daddy will understand, more than anyone, what it means to have someone around her who can stand up to Mother. “I don’t know what I did to deserve her,” Regina whispers, taking the food from Ruby and gazing across the room at Emma. “I always imagined…” She laughs wetly, the emotions of the night overwhelming. “I didn’t think I’d find someone like her before I turned forty,” she admits wryly. “I thought I’d be alone for a lot longer.”

 

“Hold onto her,” Daddy murmurs. “I wish…” His face is somber, and he heaves a long sigh as the big screen on the wall shifts to Jones’s party, Mother prominent onscreen but with that same muted energy as she’d had earlier. “Your mother and I didn’t agree on much, but we were both very certain that you were the most important person in the universe.” He smiles down at her with eyes that almost grieve, that glow with regrets and shame. “But her image of that and mine were…different.”

 

“Daddy…”

 

“I wish I’d been able to fight for you,” he says, and he shakes his head, staring at Mother on the screen as she chats with Hans about their chances. Mother’s words run over Regina like rainwater, easily brushed aside as she turns to watch Daddy instead. “I know I had no part in raising you into this…this _lumbrera_ that you’ve become, but I’m proud nevertheless. You’re doing what I never could for you.” He smiles sadly at her. “And I’m so grateful to Emma Swan for being who you need.” He gives her a little nudge, a pat against her back. “Go. Give your _novia_ something to eat.”

 

 _Novia_ , he says, _girlfriend_ without any qualifiers or euphemisms, and it’s strange how the smallest things can make tears spring into her eyes tonight. She’s an emotional wreck, on edge with the end of this election, and she blinks away the tears and smiles at one of the volunteers as he talks to her on the way to the table. “Eat,” she orders Emma, who looks at the overflowing plate in alarm.

 

But she finishes it all, just like Regina had known she would, and more results pour in just as they rise from the table again. “The Fourth is in with only sixty votes for Regina Mills and more than five hundred for Killian Jones,” Anna reports, the numbers on the board changing to 52.7% for Jones and 46.1% for Regina. “More than enough to offset Mills’s win in the Ninth Precinct.”

 

“Dammit,” Tamara says, glaring at the screen.

 

“We knew they’d take the Fourth in a landslide,” Marian reminds her. “We just have to stay calm. The First isn’t in yet.”

 

“Neither is the Second,” Regina reminds them, her heart thumping against her chest. Fifty-two percent of votes are in now, which is hardly half. There’s time. This is close.

 

Hans glances past the camera for a moment, his eyebrows raising. “And we have reports of some technical difficulties in the Sixth Precinct. Officials are working on a swift recount. In the meantime, we have Dr. Facilier with us again for his assessment of the election thus far.”

 

Facilier is back onscreen now, contemplative. “The Sixth will be the best indicator of what effect the Jones campaign’s attack ad might have had on Mills. Voting demographics there are overwhelmingly made up of renters in Elias Gold’s apartments, and there would have been an enormous backlash to revelations about Mills’s connections to him. For now, there are few surprises, other than a stronger showing by Storybrooke’s voters. An estimated eight thousand of twelve thousand voters came to the polls for this election, the second highest percentage of voters in Maine towns this election.”

 

“Well, it’s been very dramatic,” Hans comments.

 

Anna points out, “Mills has been unwavering in her outreach this election. And plenty of people in Storybrooke and beyond it see this race as a microcosm of a much larger battle.”

 

“Man against machine,” Facilier agrees.

 

“Woman,” Anna amends, and then she looks at the teleprompter and smiles. “And the First Precinct has finished tabulating votes.”

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Emma hisses, looking much more alert than she had before. “Give us the good stuff–”

 

The numbers swap incrementally, and Tamara curses. Regina now has 50% of the vote, Jones 49%. “Only sixty votes separate Mills and Jones now, with their strongest precincts already in,” Hans announces.

 

“Fuck,” Tamara mutters. “We were supposed to win more than that in the First.”

 

Neal looks worriedly at her. “Are we in trouble?”

 

“Not yet. Not yet,” Tamara says, almost a chant to herself. “Let’s see–”

 

Two more precincts come in, and they’re down again, at 48.9% to Jones’s 49.6%. Eighty-eight percent of the votes are now in, and Regina’s heart is pounding, every single part of her buzzing with renewed fear. She hasn’t let herself think about _losing_ until now, hasn’t let herself dwell on the possibility that she might have wasted nearly a year of her life on this.

 

Maybe it’ll be for the best. She can finish school without running a town at the same time. She can come back and fight again in four years to take down Jones, who will have long ago lost his supporters as readily as he had his hair. She can–

 

“Don’t you dare,” Emma says from beside her, her fists clenched. “Stop _thinking_ about anything but Town Hall. We’ve got this. We’re going to win this.” She’s glaring at the screen as though she can change the results with sheer willpower. “I’ve seen you out there in Storybrooke. There’s nothing that Cora can do that you can’t do better just by talking to voters. You made a difference.”

 

They’re forty-nine votes apart. Tamara is doing panicky calculations, Jacinda perched on the table behind her to peer at the results. “Two precincts left. The Eleventh could go either way, but it’s the bigger of the two. The Sixth isn’t going to do much to change the tide even if we managed to convince all those voters that we’re on their side.”

 

“Regina’s speech at the debate was great,” Sabine says loyally. “They must have heard it.”

 

Onscreen, Hans says, “And the difference between sides grows even tighter!” The Eleventh Precinct is in, and only _ten_ votes separate them from Jones now. “I wouldn’t be surprised if either side demands a recount after this.”

 

“Damn right we will,” Tamara mutters, gripping her tablet so tightly that her knuckles are nearly white. Regina sways, feeling very dizzy, and some of the Lost Boys start up a chant. “ _Regina! Regina! Regina!_ ” The room joins in, Regina’s friends around her shouting it with them, the cameraman panning across the room.

 

They’re onscreen moments later, Anna and Hans watching approvingly. “Mills’s campaign is in high spirits,” Hans notes. “Those ten votes might be easily overcome if the Sixth buys what Mills is selling. But still, the question remains– can a precinct made up of Gold’s tenants support a candidate who’s been helped along by Gold?”

 

Tamara watches in grim silence as the crowd continues to chant. Neal chants, loud and clear, only his eyes dark with worry. Emma bobs on her feet, tense and restless, the color back on her face and her hand squeezing Regina’s tight within hers. Regina feels sick with dread.

 

And then, Anna looks up. “And the Sixth has finished their recount,” she announces, and the room falls utterly silent in an instant. No one speaks. No one moves, and it’s as though the whole world has quieted, the whole universe frozen and waiting for the numbers on the screen to change. Even Anna has paused, and her features are unreadable, the results impossible to deduce.

 

She says at last, “With a margin of one hundred and six votes, Regina Mills is our new mayor!” The numbers change, 48.6% to Jones and 49.9% to Mills, and the room is still silent, still unmoving, a bubble about to burst. Regina is immobile, can’t register the words, and–

 

The room explodes. “ _Regina! Regina! Regina!_ ” They roar it as one, and Regina whirls around and is kissing Emma without a second thought to the room or the camera trained on her. The diner is bright, the shouts louder than ever before, and Regina is drunk on victory, caught up in sheer exhilaration mingled with disbelief. “ _REGINA! REGINA! REGINA! REGINA! REGINA!_ ” Emma tastes like saltwater, like all the tears they’re crying right now, like sweet, sweet triumph.

 

“ _REGINA! REGINA! REGINA!”_ She pulls back, Emma’s heart and hers pounding in unison against each other, Emma crying freely with sparkling, sparkling eyes. “ _REGINA! REGINA!_ ” Sabine and Jacinda are holding onto each other, Mulan beside them with the brightest smile that Regina’s ever seen on her face. _“REGINA! REGINA!_ ” Marian is chanting with the crowd, pumping a fist while Zelena bounces up and down behind her on a table. “ _REGINA! REGINA!_ ” Tamara is kissing Neal so hard that he’s half pressed against her table, unkempt and reaching to hold onto her sides while she yanks him closer. “ _REGINA! REGINA!_ ” Mary Margaret and David are chanting with Peter and his Lost Boys, all of them whirling around together. Daddy is grinning, pulling two volunteers into a little dance. Tiny Moana and Nala, her adolescent favorite fans, are shouting their hearts out. “ _REGINA! REGINA!”_

 

The television is still on, replaying the moment of victory and Regina’s and Emma’s kiss, though Regina can’t hear and doesn’t care what they’re saying. Tamara pushes Neal away from her to scramble for her tablet, leaving Neal looking shell-shocked and unsteady beside her. “Jones conceded,” she says, scanning Twitter. “He’s giving a concession speech. Says he isn’t going to contest the results.”

 

“Cora isn’t having him contest them?” Mulan says, surprised.

 

Emma ignores them. “Regina,” she says loudly, over the chanting, and she motions to the front of the room. Regina bobs her head, still in a daze, still in shock, and she walks slowly to the front of the diner.

 

Anna’s cameraman focuses on her, and Jacinda scrambles to video as well as Regina climbs onto a chair that a volunteer pushes to the counter for her. “I don’t have a microphone,” she says apologetically, and the room falls silent, all eyes on her. “We didn’t expect enough people that I would have to do more than just…raise my voice.” She laughs, a little self-consciously. “I didn’t expect any of this, a few months ago. I didn’t think I was mayor material.”

 

She swallows, her speech escaping her, and she can’t remember where she’d left it. Is it still in the car? Is it in the pockets of her coat? No matter. “I just cared about Storybrooke. I grew up here. I fell in love with everything about this town– its parks, its schools, its people most of all. And I began to see, after years and years of living with my mother, how much more those people deserved from a town like this one.

 

“I wanted unity,” she says, reaching out to the room. “I want to…to raise children in a town where there are no divisions, where inequality is noticed and countered. I want Storybrooke to flourish, and I have some ideas how that can happen. My detractors have said that I’m too young, too idealistic,” she acknowledges. “To them I say: the people of Storybrooke need idealism. The people of Storybrooke chose idealism tonight. And idealism is only idealism until we have the tools to make it reality instead.”

 

She looks directly at the camera, a speech pointed elsewhere. “I’m young,” she agrees. “I’m someone who is going to be living in this town for many, many decades, and it’s in my best interest to make it a better place. And I know that many of you do still have your doubts, and I plan…I plan to be your mayor, as well. I want a Storybrooke where everyone benefits, regardless of who they are or where they’re from or how they look or…or who they love,” she finishes, a hitch in her voice when she says it, and Emma beams at her from where she hovers near the cameras. “And I hope you’ll all be on board in four years from now, once I’ve proven what I’m capable of.”

 

She blinks away the threat of tears, turning to her campaign team. “I couldn’t have done any of this without my team, who have been under incredible pressure for months and have withstood it all. Without Marian, Jacinda, Sabine, Tamara, Mulan, Ruby. Without my father and sister, Henry and Zelena Mills, and my brother and partner in all of this, Neal Cassidy.” She smiles at them, ignores the murmur that the comment provokes, and turns to the Lost Boys and the other volunteers.

 

“Without volunteers like Gwen, Lance, Merida and Ashley, Peter and Ava and Tiny and Felix, who gave of their own time and energy to keep the campaign going. Without Shirin Jasmine and the MAF’s support directly from Augusta. Without Mary Margaret Blanchard and her enthusiasm for the campaign,” she says grudgingly, and it feels a bit like personal peace, seeing her old teacher’s smile bloom at the mention. “Without every shopkeeper who told me their story, every parent who voiced their complaints with the town, without every constituent who made it clear that they were ready to demand better for themselves. I couldn’t have done a thing to change this town without hearing your stories and learning from them.”

 

She takes a breath. “A few months ago, we had no candidate for mayor,” she says. “And I was ready to give up altogether. To try again in four years, to fight for this town in lesser ways until then. And…” She looks up, and she catches Emma’s eye. “Emma Swan didn’t let me settle for less. I wouldn’t be here without her– not even as a victor, but as a _candidate_.” Emma is smiling at her, still watery-eyed, still fiercely proud. Regina closes her eyes for a moment, feels the swooping sensation of unmistakable euphoria. “And I am so grateful to her for that. I am so grateful to all of you. I couldn’t even get elected class president before now,” she says wryly, and there’s a titter through the diner.

  
“Thank you for believing in me, Storybrooke,” Regina says, and a ripple moves through the diner, the beginnings of the chant again. “Thank you for letting me believe in you.” She grins, and it feels ferocious and free on her face, her heart bare before the cameras and the political smile gone for a single moment. “Now let’s take back Storybrooke,” she says, and the diner bursts into life again, into the “ _REGINA! REGINA! REGINA!_ ” that has been seared into her mind forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Tuna for a few little bits this chapter, and to all of you for your unwavering support. <3 A quiet little epilogue, six years later, will be up on Thursday!!


	28. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> state senate seats in Maine are _technically_ two-year terms, but shh suspend your belief k

**NOVEMBER 3**

_ 6 Years After Election Day _

 

The shouting onscreen reaches a fever pitch, and Emma leans forward in her seat and lowers the volume, watching the announcers as they call in results. “The governor’s race hasn’t been a pretty one,” the woman announcer says, shaking her head. “Voters today have expressed dismay at the mudslinging and racially charged dialogue.” 

 

“I’ll say,” Jacinda mutters from where she’s leaning back on her own seat, an elbow resting on one of the formal covered tables in her restaurant.  _ Tiana’s Palace  _ has been closed early for the night, a rare luxury that Sabine can afford for the restaurant these days. The first few years had been rough, Neal and Sabine both struggling desperately to keep it afloat, but as Storybrooke has become more and more of a hotspot in mid-coast Maine, the restaurant has thrived. 

 

And tonight, there’s nowhere Emma would rather be. “Call it,” she mutters, glaring at the screen. “ _ Call it. _ ” The election has been exhausting, as all elections tend to be, and she would have loved to be in Portland right now with the rest of the results party, lost in the exhilaration of triumph.

 

But she has responsibilities in Storybrooke, and so instead they’re huddled here, watching the election from afar. “We’re ready to call it,” the male announcer says, and he stares at the screen with a television-white smile. “State senator Marian Locksley will be Maine’s newest governor!” 

 

“Yes!” Emma keeps her voice low, but she pumps a fist, high-fiving Jacinda and jabbing a phone number into her cell.

 

Onscreen, the announcers are still talking. “Locksley rose to prominence after her ex-husband’s flubbed mayoral campaign in Storybrooke. She won’t be completing her senate term, leaving the position open,” the woman says.

 

The man raises his eyebrows and addresses the screen. “Will Mayor Regina Mills finally venture out of Storybrooke and run for her colleague’s old position?” 

 

Emma tunes out the discussion as Tamara picks up the phone. “Sixty-eight percent of the vote!” she crows, and Emma grins into the phone. “Not a  _ landslide _ , but enough to shut those assholes  _ up _ . Marian took this one–” 

 

From the other end of the phone, Marian’s voice sounds– “Is that my Storybrooke girls? Give me the–” 

 

Very suddenly, she’s on the line, exhilarated. “Emma? Is that you? Is everyone there?”

 

A hand snakes out, seizing the phone from Emma, and Regina says in a low voice, “Congratulations,  _ linda _ . I suppose this means I’m never getting my chief of staff back.” 

 

Marian’s tinny voice sounds alarmed, and Emma snorts. “Tamara is  _ mine  _ now,” Marian says. “I poached her fair and square. I thought you liked her replacement.” 

 

“Which one?” Emma says, putting her head up next to the phone. “Regina’s been through  _ six  _ in the past ten months.” 

 

Regina glowers at her. “We’re fine,” she promises Marian in a whisper. “Enjoy her. Go  _ celebrate _ .”

 

Emma grabs the phone back just as Tamara comes back on. “We’re getting ready for her speech,” she says apologetically. “Send her love to the girls and the little one.” 

 

“Tell her that her boyfriend had better be back here by tomorrow morning,” Sabine says loudly. Regina shushes her, and Emma can almost hear Tamara’s scowl over the phone. 

 

“Not my boyfriend,” she says. “ _ Bye _ .” The phone call is ended abruptly, and Sabine sits back, very smug. Whatever on-again, off-again thing that Tamara and Neal have, it tends to come back into full swing during campaigns. In a week from now, Neal will be back to wandering around town, morose and pining, appearing at the mayoral mansion for dinner every night and running late-night deputy shifts as a favor to Emma.

 

Which will be very welcome, to be fair. Emma needs all the sleep that she can get, what with… 

 

The object of her thoughts stirs, awakened by Sabine’s final comment, and Regina glowers at her before she turns her attention to the toddler curled onto her lap. “Back to sleep,  _ mijito _ ,” she murmurs, and tiny Henry slides two fingers into his mouth and shuts his eyes again. “We have a big day tomorrow.”

 

Tomorrow, they breakfast with Cora Mills.

 

* * *

 

Social media is alive with discussion of Marian’s win and the vacant state senate seat, and Emma keeps an eye on it as they pack Henry into the car again and drive back home.  _ Home _ is a house larger than all the ones Emma’s ever lived in put together, and both she and Regina had hated the traditional residence for Storybrooke’s mayor for months after Regina had been sworn in as mayor. Regina had given up her apartment a few weeks before she’d taken the position, and they’d instead spent most of their time at Emma’s apartment, the snug little room their quiet respite from the early back-and-forth that had marked Regina’s first few months as mayor.

 

Over time, they’d begun spending more and more time at the house until they’d finally let Emma’s lease run out. And now, with Henry two years old and exploring every nook and cranny of the house at all times, the house is finally beginning to feel lived in and permanent. 

 

Henry squirms free of her arms as they step into the house, toddling straight for an open cabinet in the kitchen. Regina yawns. “I’m going to run upstairs to take a shower,” she says, pressing a kiss to Emma’s cheek. “I think Henry ate half of his jambalaya and then put the rest in my hair.” 

 

“I’ll get him into bed,” Emma promises, snaking an arm around Regina’s waist. “Then I might come join you.” She tangles a hand in Regina’s hair, ignoring the stickiness that mats it down, and presses a long, ardent kiss to Regina’s lips. “Love you,” she murmurs, and Regina smiles into the kiss, closing her eyes and leaning against Emma’s shoulder for a moment. 

 

“Love you, too. And you,  _ mijito _ ,” Regina says, scooping up Henry for a moment to smother him with kisses. Henry squeals, giggling madly, and he scampers off when she lets him down, toddling in delighted circles through the living room and dining room and kitchen and foyer. 

 

Emma chases him down, lifting him into her arms and then spinning him, and he’s all wriggling limbs and wet kisses in a moment, his long-past bedtime forgotten. “I know you’re sleepier than you let on, little man,” she says, carrying him upstairs. 

 

Henry whines– “No nigh-nigh.  _ No _ –” But she passes him his sippy cup and he drinks from it obediently, his eyelids sinking closed. 

 

She sits with him on the rocking chair in his room, the shower running as she rocks back and forth, her mind wandering to the mountain of paperwork sitting on her desk at the station. David had done the bulk of it until last year, when he’d stepped down to part-time deputy and left her as sheriff, and now it’s up to her to deal with the annoying desk work. 

 

“So much work to do,” she croons, Henry snuggled up against her. “The mayor is a real hardass, too.  _ We need accountability in the sheriff’s department _ ,” she mimics Regina’s voice, making a face, and Henry giggles drowsily. “Yes, I’m sure Storybrooke will fall back into corruption if I don’t document every stray dog and jaywalker.”

 

Still, as silly as it seems to her, she logs every one obediently. Regina runs a tight ship, and she demands nothing but excellence from her government. There are always vultures circling, waiting for the smallest slip-up, the tiniest proof that Regina Mills is any less than perfect. She’s had the media following her every move since she’d turned twenty-five, the entire country looking to her and Emma as though they’re some power couple saviors.  _ Politico _ had mapped out a twenty-year plan to the presidency for Regina after just two months in office, and tiny Storybrooke has become a topic of conversation for the politically minded across the country.

 

It’s been six years since their first Election Day, two years since Regina’s reelection, and her name is still being floated as a possibility for every vacant position in Maine. Cora is thrilled, of course. 

 

_ Cora _ . “Your grandma is coming to breakfast tomorrow morning,” Emma says, careful to keep the edge out of her voice. There has been a lot of that for the past two years since Henry had been born. Cora has taken a shine to him, and it’s muted her relationship with Regina from the tension of before. Henry is oblivious to the hostility that still remains, and Regina and Emma do their best to keep it that way. 

 

“Gappa?” Henry mumbles questioningly.

 

“Your other grandma,” Emma clarifies. Somehow, in the years spent at the station and David’s house and after Regina’s grudging truce with Mary Margaret, Henry has gained a second set of grandparents. Or a  _ third _ , because Gold has decided that Henry is his grandson, if only by whatever convoluted genetics that had been ensured when they’d asked Neal to help them out.  _ Step-grandson _ , Emma reminds him when she’s feeling particularly contrary around him, but he ignores her.

 

Henry is going to grow up spoiled by some of the most formidable people in Maine, and Emma is beginning to resign herself to that. All that she and Regina can do is keep him grounded and make sure that he grows up very differently than they had.

 

So far, Emma thinks they’re doing pretty okay.

 

She doesn’t realize that she’s dozed off until there is a whisper of movement in the room, Henry lifted from her arms and placed down in his crib, and Regina is stroking her shoulder. “Emma,” she murmurs, and Emma blinks up at her sleepily. 

 

“I missed the shower,” she mumbles, disappointed. 

 

Regina rolls her eyes. “Come to bed, darling,” she says. “There will be many more showers in your future.” 

 

She leads Emma to their room, her hand in Emma’s, and Emma shifts close enough to murmur in her ear, “If you’re still up for it, Madam Mayor, we might have some time before Henry starts fussing again.” 

 

Regina’s head rolls back to rest against Emma’s neck. “I like the way you think, Sheriff Swan,” she rumbles. 

 

Emma grins, nibbling at Regina’s ear and suddenly hardly tired at all. “Good politics always turns you on.” There have been plenty of victorious moments in the past six years that have had Emma sauntering into Town Hall, Regina already buzzing with needy energy. Her secretaries have learned, with some missteps, to be discreet in those moments. 

 

“I was thinking,” Emma says, slipping her arms loosely around Regina, low enough that she can pull up the bottom of her silk nightgown and rest a hand where she wants it most. “Now that the election is over, we’re due a vacation. A few quiet days somewhere warm, Henry at Mary Margaret’s like she keeps offering, just us. Before…” Her voice trails off, leery of mentioning an upcoming non-Cora-related meeting that might change their lives again.

 

“Before…” Regina echoes wistfully, bucking lightly against Emma’s hand. She wriggles against Emma, a bolt of desire shooting through Emma at her movements. “That sounds ideal.” 

 

“We’re all about the idealism,” Emma shoots back, and Regina smiles into her neck, twisting around to kiss her. 

 

“Soon,” she promises, and Emma’s fingers delve into her, Regina biting down on her lip as she does.

 

Regina had been right. There is in fact another shower to come.

 

* * *

 

They’re in bed soon after, Emma’s head on Regina’s shoulder as Regina scrolls through social media since Marian’s victory. “There are a few of the usuals making noise about running for Marian’s seat,” she notes, a wrinkle to her brow. “Even Killian Jones has tweeted something cryptic.” 

 

“Killian Jones,” Emma muses. “I haven’t heard that name in years. I thought he shaved his head and started doing birthday party magic shows in Brunswick. Is your mother backing him?”

 

“No.” Regina sounds perturbed. “She hasn’t tweeted anything since this afternoon. Her candidates won, mostly. But nothing.” 

 

They lie in grim silence, all too aware what tomorrow’s breakfast is going to be about. “The offices aren’t far from Storybrooke,” Emma says finally. “You could easily drive in every morning, if you wanted to, and we could still live here. It is a good opportunity. And the whole district loves you. Every town in this district  _ covets _ you.” 

 

Regina laughs softly, brushing her lips against Emma’s hair. “We did some good here, didn’t we?” she murmurs. “You and me. Storybrooke is thriving.” 

 

There are no perfect solutions, of course, and no perfect happy ending. There rarely is in politics, and Emma hadn’t expected it. But the town has grown content, run efficiently and with more satisfaction from all ends of the spectrum, and Emma likes to think that it’s thanks to the mayoral office and the sheriff’s department most of all. Crime has fallen, right along with poverty, and business is growing on Main Street. Regina’s reelection had been uncontested, the people content. 

 

The media loves it, even as they push for a fatal flaw to topple down the ‘ _ Town That Idealism Built _ ’. Regina has been approached twice to sell the rights of her story to Hollywood. Even Emma has gotten calls about it, has somehow gained nearly as much attention as Regina. They’d done a ridiculous  _ Storybrooke Public Servants  _ calendar a few years ago as a fundraiser, and it had made a fortune. Emma has seen her picture from it– decked out in the uniform she doesn’t wear, striking a pose that the photographer had called  _ badass _ – all over the Internet since, on shirts and in massive poster form. Tourists ask for her  _ autograph _ , and Emma gives it bemusedly.

 

The world won’t forget about them, as much as they try to sink into their Storybrooke bubble, and maybe it’s time they stop trying. “If you wanted to run for the position,” Emma says, curling up beside her. “I’d be with you every step of the way. I can have David fill in as sheriff when you need me, and I bet we can poach Tamara back–”

 

“Mother wants it,” Regina sighs, staring at the ceiling. The hand with the phone in it drops to her side, and she rolls over, gazing at Emma instead, searching her face as though looking for answers. 

 

Emma chooses her words carefully. “You can want it, too,” she murmurs. “It won’t make you an evil mastermind just because you have the same thought as an evil mastermind–” 

 

Regina laughs softly, leaning forward to brush her lips against Emma’s. But she looks troubled. “I have…all these people convinced that I’m destined for something greater than Storybrooke. That I’m being  _ wasted _ here. And I know I  _ can  _ do more–” She falls silent, the guilt swimming in her eyes. “Am I being selfish if I don’t want to?” 

 

_ Oh _ . Regina’s indecision isn’t in running for the position. It’s in rejecting it, in remaining in Storybrooke and turning her back on all the people who have taken her measure, just as Cora had, and deemed her destined for greatness.

 

A sharp cry interrupts them, Henry crying out in the next room, and Regina rolls out of bed and pads to him. Emma takes her forgotten phone, glancing at the tweets that Regina had seen.  _ Mills would be a fool to let this opportunity pass her by. Regina Mills should be running for US Senate by now, not state senate. What the hell is Mills waiting for?  _ The Internet is impatient, as unforgiving as Cora had once been of Regina’s shortcomings. 

 

Emma remembers, suddenly, a moment six years before, lying in the dark beside Regina before they’d even been dating. There had been a whispered admission, a quiet truth amidst the aching intimacy-that-wasn’t.  _ I want a wife and children and this town I love. I don’t know if I want anything else. _

 

In that moment, six years ago, nothing in the world had sounded more perfect. Emma hadn’t let herself dream of being that  _ wife _ , of having a permanent place in this town or in Regina’s heart, but she’d craved it in the secret recesses of her mind. She’d wanted it more than anything. 

 

“He’s cold,” Regina says from the doorway, Henry wrapped in her arms.  _ That room has terrible insulation _ , she complains at least twice a week, as though she needs an excuse to let Henry sleep in their bed. Emma rolls her eyes, smiling up at them, her wife cradling her son and climbing into their bed together. 

 

Henry curls up between them, already asleep again, and Regina watches him, her eyes soft and warm. “Hey,” Emma whispers, and those same soft eyes are on her. “I’m going to call your mom and cancel breakfast tomorrow. I’ll bring Henry over after work tomorrow if she wants to see him.” 

 

Regina blinks at her, shaking her head. “We have to–”

 

“We don’t.” Cora has been trying in her own way over the years, bit by bit. She is as much a manipulative schemer as she’s always been, but she communicates with them in stilted requests, in sly overtures that are withdrawn if either of them calls her out on it. But she won’t attack Regina anymore, won’t find ways to rule her by fear. They’re  _ safe _ , in a way that Regina has confessed that she’d never felt before.

 

It had taken a full year of heart-wrenching debate before Regina would even consider bringing a child into the world who would call Cora Mills  _ grandmother _ . They had argued about it nearly as much as they’d argued about who would get to propose to whom, and Emma had won both arguments, somehow, taking advantage of Regina’s distraction pre-election.

 

She still remembers the triumphant feeling during Regina’s reelection, when Anna had grinned onscreen, as prearranged, and said,  _ And we have an unprecedented number of write-in votes this election, all for the same name. Seems as though many of Storybrooke’s citizens are in fact unhappy with the status quo _ . Regina had frozen up beside her, and Anna had declared happily,  _ Over a hundred votes have been cast for Regina Swan-Mills _ , and Regina had jolted, turned to stare at Emma, and had found her on her knees.

 

_ What the hell _ , she’d said, over and over, and then she’d laughed and cried. And soon after, Henry had been born, and Regina had laughed and cried again and loved him so desperately that there had been no more second-guessing.

 

Now, he lies between them, a symbol of exactly how much happiness they’ve found together. A symbol of  _ contentment _ , of a life’s mission that they’d built for themselves, rather than the world setting goalposts for them to reach. 

 

“I don’t want to be senator,” Regina admits at last, gazing at her over Henry’s head. “I don’t want to follow someone else’s plan for me. I want to be here, in Storybrooke, with you and Henry and…and anyone else.”  _ Anyone else _ , because of what they’re afraid even to discuss yet, because maybe,  _ maybe _ – 

 

One more meeting with Social Services, and they’ll be approved as foster parents. Emma is fragile when she thinks about it, when she thinks about how it’s been Regina’s plan since the beginning. She had thought, after they’d decided to have Henry, that Regina might back down, might give up on the idea of foster children once they’d had a biological son. But Regina had only grown more determined. 

 

There are times when Emma still can’t believe that Regina is  _ hers _ , that she’s found a home and a family she’d never dreamed she might have. And now Regina lies beside her, wracked with indecision over a decision she should never have to make. “Is that…can’t that be enough?” she whispers. It’s plaintive, guilty, and Emma aches to show her all she’s done in Storybrooke– every life altered, every street renewed, Regina’s heart in everything she does.

 

“It’s what made me fall in love with you,” Emma says honestly. Regina had put herself into her campaign, had fought fiercely for this town as though for her own child. Regina might know all the right words to say and all the right ways to fight, but it isn’t power that she’s meant for. 

 

It’s love, belonging, a home and work where she can make a difference. It’s all the same things that Emma’s meant for, too, that they’ve found in Storybrooke together. And if Regina changes her mind someday, they’ll forge forward and take the world by storm, but for now, for this time and this town, this feels right. “It’s perfect,” Emma murmurs, and their hands rest together on their son’s back, fingers entwined as they drift off to sleep at last.

 

Tomorrow, they have work to do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of the road!!
> 
> I don't think there are words to say how much I appreciate all the people who have helped me through this one. To all the people who helped me work through plot bumps and gave me tips on how to deal with delicate situations or who just gave me the words I needed– thank you, thank you, thank you!! And to all those of you who've been here along the way, reading and reviewing and kudosing and hyping up this thing– you are truly the reason why I managed to even finish this monster fic. Literally.......that isn't even an exaggeration, there were multiple times when I was super exhausted or down on the fic and a single review was enough to get me moving again. Thank you so much for following the story that idealism built. <3
> 
> And if you're interested in reading about how you can support my writing, you can click [here](http://coalitiongirl.tumblr.com/coffee)! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I would love to know what you think!!


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